


And Then There Were Two

by Cornbeefroast



Series: And Then There Were Two [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, dual inquisitor au, prologue rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornbeefroast/pseuds/Cornbeefroast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best you can do is protect the ones you love, fate can damn the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And then there were two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ryuichifoxe](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ryuichifoxe).



> Started as a Christmas gift but wound up as a birthday gift xD Writing these two was a blast, I haven't written so much in ages but I want to keep going, rewrite the main missions. But we'll see about that. I did my best with the elvish, probably fibbed it up some. Translations for the elvish at the bottom of each chapter.  
> This is a prologue rewrite featuring my inquisitor, Cahiral, and Ryuichifoxe's Rorie Lavellan.  
> Beta read by SeraultandPepper (tumblr)

**I.**

There’s an itch digging in the back of Cahiral’s mind, a warning, something...blurred and distant, difficult to make out, to remember. Her body throbs, sore and weak, pins and needles dancing on her arms and legs and stinging as they crawl up her spine.  
Was she drugged? Were they found out? Where was— _damn_ why did her hand hurt so much?

A green light flashed somewhere in her periphery, making her eyes burn, flinching away from the source, her sharp gasp causing a sudden shift in the room, like collective hackles raising on edge. The familiar shriek of blades unsheathed makes her ears ring, difficult to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from.

As it would turn out, from all around her. Once the ringing in her head dimmed enough to open her eyes she saw the soldiers, three, with their blades drawn, faces hidden by helmets and scarves. Their breath just white puffs in the cold air and steely eyes narrowed at her. They weren't passive, their gazes accuse her of _something,_ given all the simmering anger boiling just below the surface. One order and they’d run her through, no hesitation.

"Get the seeker." One voice growls and a guard steps away, letting his neighbor take his place, before turning and fleeing the room for, she guesses, her interrogator. The remaining two don’t say any more, on their toes, waiting for her to give them an excuse to put their blades to use.

Her skull still feels like cracking and when she shifts she notices the weight in her arms isn't just an effect of her body. Metal cuffs warmed by her own heat rest uncomfortably on her wrists, removing any use she could get out of them—though the bar itself wedged between would make a decent choke hold. The cell floor was of course uncomfortable, rough stone scratching against her feet, knees beginning to chill and the cold seeped into her bones now that she was conscious enough to appreciate it.

  
_"Fenhedis"_ she swears, shifting on her knees and grimacing at the stiffness surging up her back, ache seeping into her shoulders and neck. How long had she been here? A couple hours? She can’t hear anything outside the cell, was the conclave over already? They must’ve blown their cover before they could get any good information, _damn_ keeper wasn’t going to be happy about that. More so if the clan would have to prepare for two funerals instead of none. Cahiral wouldn’t put it past these humans, whoever they are, to kill their prisoners.

She’s halfway through surmising a plan to break out and find Rorie when the thick wooden door to the cell opens, creaking wearily on its hinges, hitting the wall with an echoing slam and revealing a woman with a severe scowl. It makes Cahiral’s skin crawl. The guard who ran to fetch the woman trailed behind her, giving the others a hand signal, making them take a step back, sheathing their swords and giving the interrogator and her prisoner space.

Cahiral studies the… Templar? She certainly wasn’t a sister or mother of the chantry, and the elf wasn’t adept in human insignias such as the eye emblazoned on the breast plate. What had the guards called her? A seeker? Some other human organization, surely. Either way, Cahiral shifts on the balls of her feet, ready to move if the need arises.

There’s an etched scar in the woman’s cheek and a polished sword at her hip so she’s seen action and knows how to handle herself. Ready to handle Cahiral in a way that will get her the answers she wants.  
A smart reply worth a smack is on Cahiral’s tongue before the woman speaks up, accent foreign though it sounded vaguely Orlesian, a twinge of something else beneath it.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.” She paces, sending all of Cahiral’s senses on high alert when she stops behind her, hanging in her blind spot. Even though she knows it’s an interrogation tactic, it works, the hair on the back of her neck standing on edge. She tightens her jaw, steeling her glare when the woman circles back around to her front, that scowl deepening when her subject doesn’t immediately answer.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? All the lives you’ve taken?”

“Lives?” Cahiral blurts before she can school herself, “What are you talking about?”

“So she speaks!” A snarl curls the seeker’s lip, baring her teeth “The conclave is—” she sucks in a trembling breath, “The conclave is destroyed… whatever you and yours did, it killed them all. You and your _friend_ were the only survivors.”

Friend. That’s the word Cahiral latches on to, everything else can wait. “Where is he? Where’s my—?” Brother is too close to home, would give her interrogator something to hold over her, something to threaten. Not that the fierceness of her expression gives her away, “—friend.”

Her interrogator sneers, shaking her head and turning on her heel, back to her bound prisoner and waving her hand in dismissal, “He is safe… for now-“

“Cassandra!” One of the guards shouts in alarm, almost drowned out by the snarl that makes the seeker twist back around in time for the elf to ram into her, the poorly aimed head butt cracking against her teeth and making her senses sing. The seeker struggles to get space between them before she manages to launch her elbow in to the prisoner’s face, throwing her back on to the floor; the healers said she wouldn’t have the strength to do anything drastic, _dammit._

“Get back, get back!” Cassandra shouts, blocking one of the guards from attacking the downed elf, shoving him away. The other two follow orders quickly, stepping back outside the torch light, waiting for the next excuse to launch into action. Wolves, the lot of them.

Cassandra wipes her mouth, tasting blood from the split in her lip, minor bruising, nothing fatal. The prisoner however was worse for ware, already weak, arms trembling as she picks herself back up, nose cracked and bleeding as she turns a fiery glare up at Cassandra, opening a mouth of bloody teeth.

“I don’t know you.” She growls low in her throat, baring her teeth, “I don’t know what it is you _think_ I’ve done, but don’t you dare-AH” Searing pain suddenly shoots up her arm, that green light from before flaring all around her, the bones in her hand try pulling themselves apart, her hand racked with violent spasms until it suddenly flickers out and she gasps, breathing hard and letting her arms drop, the awkward cuffs clanking against the stone.

Cassandra considers her for a moment, immediate anger diminished, figuring her prisoner's been punished enough for that foolish attack.

“My name is Cassandra Pentaghast, you are my prisoner and you will answer my questions.” She grabs Cahiral’s arm plagued by the glowing shard, gauntleted fingers digging in bruises, “Now explain this.”

  
Cahiral grimaces, trying to wrench away, but the—the thing in her hand has drained her even more than she was, allowing this _Cassandra_ her small victory.

“I don’t know what that is or how it got there” she gasps borderline strangled whimper. Every breath feels like fire and she seethes when Cassandra releases her.

“You’re lying!”

“ _Elgar’nan ma halam_ ”

Cassandra sneers, the foreign language making her itch, “No matter, we _will_ figure out what it is you’ve done, the only reason you’re still here is because we need you.” At that the room freezes to a stop, shocked at Cassandra’s own confession.  
“I—never mind. We’ll get more out of you once we’re through with the other one.” Cassandra quickly turns away to hide her blush, gesturing to the guard who first retrieved her, “Watch her— _don’t_ touch her.” she orders and stalks out of the cell, slamming the door shut. Maker preserve her.

Cahiral watches the Pentaghast go, blinking in surprise and looking down to her wounded hand, at the gnarled green break in her skin. It sparks slightly between the cracks like lightning, but it doesn’t burn. Instead it feels… bottomless, like a cold abyss. Whispers slither up her arm, pleading, promising—she jerks away and closes her eyes, shaking her head and clenching her jaw till her teeth ache. Later.

She’d think about that later, right now Rorie was safe, somewhere, and she’d fooled her interrogator into revealing prime information. They needed her, and most likely, they needed Rorie too—whoever ‘they’ were and for whatever reason. The guards couldn’t touch her, ordered explicitly not to.

So she wonders what would happen if she screamed.

* * *

The first thing Rorie notices, besides the absolutely _roaring_ headache, is that he’s lying flat on his back on a stone floor that digs into his skin like gravel. It’s cold, settling in his lungs as he takes a deep inhale and he shoots up to cough violently. His throat heaves, choking on air as if he hadn’t breathed it for weeks. A bitter taste close to a health potion sits thick on his tongue—had there been an attack at the conclave? The last thing that comes to mind is the curling of Cahiral’s hand on his elbow and... where is she?

His eyes open only to darkness, torchlight flickering above him in a brazier, the gentle crackle of consumed wood accompanying the silence of shadows—every small sound was too loud, the wheezing in his lungs, a creaking door far off, whispers, so many whispers just behind him, above, all around him. Then, all at once, they become muted, like screaming through water, only leaving the burning in his hand, growling like fire and… glowing?

“Good, you’re awake” a lilting voice says from the shadows and the whispers cut off instantly, making him stiffen and look up. A woman steps forward, half cast in darkness like it makes a home on her pale skin, calculating blue eyes watching him.  
“We were wondering when you would,” her hands are folded behind her back as she walks, pacing around him, the chainmail she wears gently swishing with every step, “I have questions, answer them honestly if you would, I’ll know when you’re lying.” Her voice circles him, then suddenly she’s in front of him, moving like darkness, making him jump, a swear on his tongue that he bites down on.

The shadows must be playing tricks on him. Might be the fact that his vision blurs on every painful inhale, that the walls are closing in and his wrists chafe on the sharp cuffs digging into his skin. The shadows taunt him on the edge of the firelight, the woman's armor flickering, molten metal sliding past him and making his stomach twist in nausea, panic rising in his lungs. He’s trapped.

Trapped or not, he swallows to calm his racing heart, reaching out to his magic and relieved when he finds the familiar lull of it in his veins, a small comfort in the face of all these unknowns. He raises his chin and sets his jaw, giving the woman cloaked in black all the indignation he feels writhing in his stomach.

She smiles, knowingly, and leans away, lifting a hand like a signal to unseen figures. That's when he notices there's more than just the two of them in the room. Metallic footsteps pace then step forward to light the other torches, bathing the cell in warm fluttering light, illuminating the shadows as she gives up her charade.

Three soldiers surround him, swords at their hips, protection against a helpless prisoner. Helpless as far as they are concerned. He pulls his magic into his fingertips, fire in his chest and lightning curled in his throat waiting to be spoken. If they were going to kill him, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“The conclave is gone,” that brings his attention back to his interrogator, “Everyone who attended is dead, everyone except for you, that is.” _Everyone?_ But… hadn’t Cahiral been right behind him? She’d found him in the crowd, hauled him off into a corner to argue the merits of leaving a damn note and running off to play spy.

Her words, not his.

That argument comes back to him so clearly, he remembers the snow on her cowl, her fierce eyes absolutely incensed and her fingernails digging into his skin as she pulled him away from the proceedings—he still feels the pin pricks of her touch, ghosting the crescent shaped bruises. Then there's running, someone chasing him? But everything else is… everything else is blank, and it hurts to think any harder on it.

But Rorie would remember something like that, an attack that would take Cahiral from him. He can’t ignore the sudden emptiness plummeting in his stomach, a swallowing cold that threatens to consume him, freezing his breath as it leaves his lungs—it’s not possible, she wouldn’t do that to him... she _wouldn't._ If anything he'd be the one doing it to her, dying on her watch. This though, this is impossible, it has to be, and it shows on his face.

“You don’t believe me.” The woman observes, having watched his thoughts run past him in quick succession. His conclusion is stout disbelief, which is surprising to say the least. She pauses as she thinks, all calm and collective, sure of herself in as much a way Rorie isn't.

He's about to tell her off, tell her she's lying and there's no way when a fierce pain coiled in his hand suddenly snaps and he doubles over, gasping for breath when it’s stolen from him. The mark on his hand, its grown, wide and fierce like a gaping maw, sparks of green light shooting through his veins and there’s a sharp scathing pain, too many teeth piercing into him. As quickly as it comes, it’s gone, a dull throbbing in its place radiating from his hand up to his jaw, pounding in his ears and making his bones ache.

He’s left gasping, pressing his forehead into the cool floor, sweat beading his skin as the green light sputters out. It’s taken everything out of him, trembling and breathing hard, the world pushing down on him, unable to pull himself back up—one of the soldiers grabs him by his shoulder and hoists him to his knees none too gently. He tries to swear at the soldier but his throat closes on the word and all he manages is a raspy growl.

“Can you explain what that is?” the woman frowns at him, gesturing to the mark on his hand, “What it does?”

He shoots her a look and a scowl of his own, “No.” her brows shoot up at his hoarse voice finally breaking his silence, past his tumbling breath, “I can’t.”

“You won’t?”

“I _can’t”_ he snaps, annoyed, cradling his hand against his chest, the bulky cuffs wringing against his wrists already red and raw.

“I don’t believe you.”

 _“Hmph,_ that makes two of us.” he snorts, “You’re lying, there's no way... you’re just trying to dig up a worthless confession for some crime against your kind. Blame the knife-ear, right?” he spits, “That's how it always is.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, “Ah...you think this is because you are Dalish.”

“Isn’t it?”

“If only it were as simple!” Her voice lowers, filled suddenly with dark emotion, not rage, or frustration, but something far too close to devastating sorrow, “Maybe you truly don't remember, but the conclave is gone! There was an explosion at the heart of it, everyone there perished, Templars, mages, _the divin_ e. You are our only survivor, our only _suspect_. I can protect you for only so long before the people demand justice—” she’s cut off when a scream pierces the air.

It echoes off the walls, the nearly forgotten soldiers stiffening, eyes wide, and the woman immediately whirls on her heel to run out the door without explanation except an order told to the nearest soldier, “Don’t touch him.”

The shrieking persists, hitting him like a wave when the door's flung open, hope swelling through him faster than he can clamp it down. He knows that voice, hoarse and wounded, and it stings something fierce in his heart when his mind clicks and he recognizes Cahiral. As in supposed to be dead, Cahiral.

Anger quickly replaces the hope, burning through him, his expression darkening as he drags his magic to the surface. It’s a chore, but he manages. Ice clings to his skin, his breath hanging in the air in a shock of cold, barely catching in the withering torchlight. There was his friend, his sister, screaming like a sylvan on fire. Whoever these people were, they’d pay for this. Frost settles on the ground beneath him, veins of ice surge across the stone like roots through the cracks, spreading like blood in water.  
The first soldier to notice the ice jumps back when it touches her boot, a sharp gasp wrenched from her mouth, panic making her voice crack, “Magic—!”

* * *

 Leliana’s breathing hard as she runs, more from panic than exertion. By Andraste’s light what was Cassandra doing? She follows the shrieking straight to where the seeker was supposed to be interrogating her suspect, not _torturing_ her.

  
She comes upon the cell, but Cassandra is standing outside the door, looking in, jumping when Leliana practically appears behind her, “Maker’s breath _Cassandra-!”_

“Leliana! What are you-?” Cassandra spins to face the left hand of the Divine, her eyes wide in surprise. There’s a cut on her lip that hadn’t been there the last hour they’d seen each other, but Leliana has more to worry about than that mystery.  
“What are you doing? Your soldiers are-“

“They haven’t touched her, Leliana!” Cassandra snaps at the accusation “See for yourself.”

She gestures to the door where the screaming pauses only briefly for a deep inhale before a renewed scream bounces off the walls and makes Leliana’s ears positively _ring._

The spy does as Cassandra suggests, leaning on the door to peer through the bars. She finds their other suspect kneeling on the ground, head thrown back and teeth bared in a hoarse scream, the soldiers around her staring at her in shock, but none of them have their weapons drawn—the mystery shard grafted in her hand isn’t even flaring.

“What is she doing?” Cassandra grimaces, covering one of her ears and raising her voice over the sound.

Leliana studies Cassandra’s prisoner, narrowing her eyes when the elf pauses for breath and spots Leliana through the bars, her shriek stopping to allow her a devilish grin, mischief in her silver eyes, the light casting shadows on the hollows of her face, painting her in black and fire.

Understanding hits Leliana like a charging druffalo.

 _“Damn”_ she swears, turning away from the door, the screaming hasn’t picked back up again, though she suspects it’s only a matter of catching breath. The elf’s ruined Leliana’s interrogation, losing her advantage over her own prisoner, making him think he was the only one left—that edge had given her honest answers, though he wasn’t so forthcoming verbally, realizing he was the sole survivor had made him vulnerable.

Now though, now she wouldn’t get anywhere, if he was stubborn before he’d be doubly so now that he knows his kin is alive and kicking.

Or, screaming, as it were, the elf letting loose a wail as if she was writhing in pain.

Cassandra grabs Leliana by the arm, hauling her away from the cell, down the hall where they can speak and actually hear each other.  
“She hasn’t given me anything.” she says, giving the cell door a withering scowl, “She claims she doesn’t know about the mark or where it came from.”

Leliana sighs, dropping her head into her hand, “Mine said just as much. He was… resistant… If I’d just had more _time—”_ she’s broken off when a soldier comes running from the opposite direction, skidding in her haste, ice clinging to her boots?  
The both of them jump when she shouts up the stairwell to the chantry above, “Templar! We need a Templar!” then spots the two of them standing just down the way. She flings her arm back to the cell of Leliana’s prisoner.

“H-he’s a mage!”

“Oh sweet Andraste” Leliana bemoans, reaching to stop Cassandra before she can move to assist, “We don’t know how the mark will react to your abilities, we need both of them if we’re going to do anything about the breach. Let me handle him.” Cassandra scowls but doesn’t argue, turning back to her prisoner’s cell, “I’ll quiet _her—gently,_ Leliana don’t give me that look.” She growls, turning away from her colleague.

Leliana shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose to collect herself before turning to run back to her prisoner’s cell, praying to the Maker that the mage hasn’t done anything drastic. By all accounts, mage or not, he should’ve been too weak to do much at all. She’ll need to have a word with their healers after this.

The door is frozen shut when she arrives, the wood groaning as it warps to the cold, spears of ice stretching between the seams and frost glistening on the hinges.

“Help me-” she wheezes between breaths to the soldier that fetched her, throwing all her weight on the door. It takes them both running into it before it gives, splintering where it’s frozen most, wood crackling like glass.

* * *

 His magic is weak, thinning veins desperate to pull some kind of power together, dipping into his reserves to find them less than useful. Instead he’ll settle for terrifying the living hell out of the soldiers surrounding him, shaping the ice to his will with what magic he has, crawling across the floor like a living thing slinking in the dark.

Rorie’s not sure what he intends to do with them, doesn’t really care. Fen’harel could take their souls for all he gives a shit about them. But the aching in his hand makes him falter, flickering and stealing his breath away—he can’t keep this up forever.  
Then the door smashes in, flooding the room with light and the woman from before snaps at him, eyes wide and fierce, but not afraid.

“Enough!” She barks, the cold air making her words weak and wheezing.

“Stop that and I’ll take you to her.” She is quick to promise him exactly what he wants, which should raise all kinds of suspicious flags but he can’t find the energy to be anything more than relieved, and maybe even hopeful, much as his cynicism tries to stamp that down.

“If you’ve hurt her…” Rorie snarls, releasing his hold on the ice around him, letting it wilt in favor of preserving what little energy he has left. If they’ve tortured Cahiral for a hopeless confession then Elgar’nan as his witness they’d pay for it.

“She’s no worse than you, I promise.” The woman insists, gingerly picking her way down the steps, ice crackling and crumbling beneath her feet. He realizes Cahiral’s screaming has stopped, anxiety settling on his skin at the thought that her silence isn’t breathing.

He has to see for himself, so he allows his jailor to approach, releasing the chains that bind him to the floor and helping him to his feet. He grimaces at how he wobbles, how even her surprisingly gentle touch stings like the burn of snow. He _hates_ it, feels like he’s been bled dry so much so that every function is a trial, everything from breathing to walking sending needles across his skin. His magic can bolster him for only so long and even then, his little ice display did him no favors.

If he leans too heavily on her, she doesn’t mention it, giving the soldiers an order to return to the Commander and aid him in the fighting. Had the conclave gone so poorly? Mages and Templars fighting on what was supposed to be neutral ground? If this woman was right, that there was an explosion like the one at the Kirkwall chantry, then all-out war wouldn’t be a far leap of judgment.

They’re halfway down a long stretch of cold corridor, empty cells on either side, when the _thing_ in his hand starts flickering—he can feel it pulse in his grip, slithering claws tearing slowly across bones. He doesn’t realize just how woozy he is on his feet until he’s nearly collapsed, stumbling into the woman and unable to right himself. She gives him a look cross between worried and urgent, holding him up almost entirely on her own, pursing her lips and brow furrowing. She doesn't say anything, though clearly she wants to.

Rorie nearly manages to get back on his feet when a high pitched seething whine comes from an open cell door at the end of the hall and the mark flares back to life. He can feel it struggling against his fading strength, surging forward, trying to lead him onwards on fragile staggering steps, even with the hooded woman’s help.

He’s broken out into a cold sweat by the time they make it to the cell door and the mark flickers out with a snap, dying so quickly that it floods his body with relief. Half that relief might be at the sight of Cahiral, recovering from an identical mark that plagues her left hand.

She shakes, trembling from her own pain, dry gasping whimpers slipping from her throat. But when she looks up to see him she nearly jumps to her feet, weakness all but forgotten, her eyes wide and grin stretching her lips—blood on her teeth spilling from her nose making the woman holding him up gasp.

 _“Cassandra!”_ she turns a hardened glare at another woman standing there, likely the dealer of Cahiral’s own brand of interrogation. That woman throws her hands up in defense.  
“She attacked me!” she begins to argue, but he ignores their heated bickering, relief making his limbs numb, or might be the cold, when he falters forward and Cahiral stands to lend him her shoulder to ease him down instead of collapsing on skinned knees.  
_“Lethallin”_ her voice is as hoarse as his, if not more so for her screaming. But it’s familiar, welcome, she’s a shred of safety in this catastrophe.

“ _Ah—ma serannas Mythal—ma eth? Dirthera melava suv_?” she rattles off, desperate, eyes flickering over him, searching for any sign of harm inflicted on him.

“ _Lethallan_ ” he snorts, shaking his head in exasperation, “ _Ame eth_ ” he promises. Cahiral just fixes him with a disbelieving frown, “ _Ar tel harel_ ”

He just brushes her off, wouldn’t be the first time she’s called him a liar, certainly won’t be the last, “ _Ma eth? Ma lin’al_ ”

“ _Ras banal_ ”

“ _Cahiral_ ”

“ _Dir'vhen'an!_ ” but she’s smiling despite her earnestness, laughing under her breath, seething at the wave of pain it brings. She’s paler than she should be and the smile barely reaches her eyes, tired and weary, deeper pain than just the physical seeping into her core.

She looks as bad as he feels… but there’s also no sign of torture besides the bloodied nose and he narrows his eyes at that.  
“….why were you screaming?”

"Oh, right..." she bites her lip, looking away from him, "It... seemed like the best idea at the time."

" _Elgar'nan_ —Cahiral! I thought they'd-" his throat stops on him and he sucks in a sharp breath, settling with a bitter scowl and flushed embarrassed cheeks.

Realization dawns on her, eyes widening "Ro... _ir abelas_ I... didn't know where you were... They need us for—for _something,_ I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. She wouldn't even let her guards get the jump on me after I lunged at her so I figured-"  
"Cahiral!" Rorie hisses, interrupting her and jerking away, scandalized.

"She threatened you." she squares her shoulders, fixing him with a stern glare. She doesn't hold the charade up for long, her resolve crumbling and she softens all at once. She leans forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder with a sigh cracking under the weight of the world.

He's never been entirely on board with the public displays of affection, especially here in front of strange shems, but... this was a special case, so he lets her, taking what comfort they can before they’re brought back into the fray.

  
“ _Vir eth_ ” Cahiral mumbles, though it’s just sentiment at this rate. They’re both safe, for now, but not for long.

The searing green marks engrained in their hands flicker and hum. A warning before the marks would surely flare up in full force, glassing over like crystal and dying back down to the needling throb that is quickly becoming familiar.  
"Do you know what it is?" she asks, her voice strangled, something in her throat making her waver.

“No” He sighs, unable to offer much in information or comfort. Their keeper hadn’t taught Rorie anything like this, no stories mentioned it, and none of the rare texts they came across had any kind of inkling to what power has taken hold of the both of them.

  
The cell’s gone quiet, their interrogators had stopped their quarreling, sniping remarks between heated breaths, and now watch the two of them carefully. The one with the scar on her cheek scowls, waiting, while the other analyzes them, searching for information in their actions, trying to determine who they are.

“ _Aval’var halam_ ” Rorie murmurs grimly, straightening his back doubt how much his body just wants to collapse.

“ _Tel’sahlin_ ” Cahiral snips back, peeved but it’s an argument for another time, instead turning her attention to the two women.

“You look like you have words for us, Cassandra” Cahiral taunts, sounding innocent enough, but the grin on her lips and defiance in her eyes makes the armored woman stiffen, biting a sharp remark back.  
“Tell us what you know.” She demands, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword—not a threat, but both elves hone on the movement.

“That’s not going to be a long conversation” Cahiral replies, goading, lifting her chin in challenge, straightening her shoulders and making herself appear bigger, something she’s always done on the battlefield to garner the attention of the enemy. But here in this cell, it’s to keep the threat off Rorie and he notices immediately, giving his sister a narrowed look of annoyance for it.

Cassandra clenches her hands into fists, reaching the end of her patience, until Rorie’s interrogator places a gloved hand on her shoulder, grounding her.  
“We need them.” She reminds her colleague sternly, taking her chance to step forward and lead the interrogation in her own fashion.

“Do either of you remember what happened? How this all began?” Rorie can tell she’s being earnest, honest, no deception like she had before, playing him to her advantage. No more parlor tricks or acts of deception.  
“I…remember running” Cahiral is hesitant as she speaks, choosing her words carefully lest they be used against them, “There were things chasing me… us?” She glances at Rorie for reassurance, relieved when he nods.  
It’s fuzzy, but he remembers, the sound of too many feet chasing him in the dark. He can’t remember Cahiral being there… but she must’ve been if their memories are so similar.

“There was a woman” he supplies after her pause, turning back to their jailors.

“A woman?” Cassandra seethes, beginning to pace impatiently, reminding Rorie of a horse chomping at the bit.

“She helped us—reached out to us but then…” he grimaces when a shrilling scream pierces his memories, shattering them into nonsense, and then going blank.

“Nothing.” Cahiral supplies, looking like she’s suffering a similar lapse of memory, bristling as if waiting for the accusations to start flying.

Cassandra huffs in disbelief, shaking her head and turning away, gesturing to the other woman, “We will have to handle this later—Leliana, go to the forward camp, I will take them to the rift.”

The woman of shadows—Leliana—scowls at the seeker, but nods, giving the cut on Cassandra’s lip a contemplative look, then their charges, both of whom had given them considerable grief.

“Maker willing it will work” she murmurs to Cassandra before turning on her heel, leaving without so much as a glance backwards, her footsteps fading into the darkness beyond the cell.

The soldiers, silent as ever, shift uncomfortably when Cassandra takes a ring of keys from her belt, kneeling before Cahiral and Rorie both. She unlocks the cuffs with a clatter of metal, securing Cahiral’s wrists first with the rawhide chord from Cassandra’s belt before moving to Rorie.

Cahiral allows the man-handling, grimacing but not resisting, asking instead, “What _did_ happen?”

Cassandra scowls at her as she finishes tying off the bindings on Rorie’s raw wrists, the mage seething under his breath but otherwise silent. The seeker looks like she’s about to snap, all bitter words and angry accusations—but then she softens, replacing all that anger with something far more devastating.

Something too close to heartbreak.

“It… will be easier to show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ah--Ma serannas Mythal--ma eth? Dirthera melava suv?"  
> "Ah--thank Mythal--are you alright? Tell me what happened?"
> 
> "Ame eth"  
> "I'm fine"
> 
> "Em tel'harel"  
> "Liar"
> 
> "Ma eth? Ma lin'al"  
> "Are you okay? You're bleeding"
> 
> "Ras banal"  
> "Its nothing"
> 
> "Dir'vhen'an!"  
> "Promise!"
> 
> "Vir eth"  
> "We're safe"
> 
> "Aval'var halam"  
> "We're finished"
> 
> "Tel'sahlin"  
> "Not yet"


	2. Vir'ghilas ghi'myal

**II.**

The Seeker was right. It was impossible to simply explain what it was they'd been accused of. Words couldn't describe it, not easily anyway. To Cahiral it was… havoc? Something terrible and wretched and bathed in death. Heinous.

The whispers constantly crawling up her arm from the agitated mark shrieked when she first saw the breach spiraling in the sky, crackling in its dormancy. Wisps swam through the sky, choking the air with their ilk, larger demons vying to escape the fade, their images painted in the clouds. Rage, pride, despair, the sins of Thedas poured out in droves, and it'd been like this for _days_... if not more.

Then the whole construct flared up, a crashing boom radiated from the rift torn into the sky, lightning sparking through the air tinged with fade and making her teeth ache. It felt like hot wire wrapped around her chest and dug into her stomach, ripping the breath right out of her as she collapsed into the snow, ears ringing, and the blood in her mouth tasted like acid sliding down her throat.

“Now do you understand?” It was Cassandra, her voice so distant but dragging Cahiral back from the brink, from being swallowed whole by the pain, pure and potent that it was. She knew that when it faded it would come back, a fierce monster settling in her veins waiting for the next chime to strike.

She imagined it was very much the same for Rorie. He was recovering from his own episode, clinging to the chantry wall in an attempt to retain at least some dignity. No use in collapsing in front of the shemlen eying them in front of the chantry like vipers.

“That _thing_ , that breach into the world of demons—it grows larger with each passing hour. We are running out of time, rifts like it have spread across Thedas, all caused by the explosion at the conclave.” Cassandra's grip on Cahiral's arm is harsh, hoisting her to her feet, metal gauntlets leaving behind sore red marks and bruises.

“Unless we act—unless _you_ act, it will grow to swallow the world. Each time it expands, both of your marks grow.” She looks behind Cahiral to Rorie, pale and broken in a cold sweat, biting his lip to keep in the shuddering gasps.

“And it is killing you both, unless we stop it. You two may be the key to doing so.” The admission comes bitterly on Cassandra's tongue. She's demanding their help as much as she is pleading for it. The situation had to be dire to garner the help of two dalish elves in the heart of the Maker's faithful.

Cahiral would be resistant to believe the woman if each violent pulse didn't suck her dry, draining her of any energy, any willpower, until all she wanted to do was lay down in the snow and just.... fade away. Rorie wasn't much better, his magic withering, wrenched from his grasp and powerless against every searing pulse scathing his bones brittle and charred before dying, hollow.

That is until the next flare demanded their attention, the famished marks stealing more and more until consuming them whole. Cassandra was right, they didn't have a lot of time left.

“You say—” Cahiral seethes, pulling away from Cassandra's vice grip, gritting her teeth, “—you say we may be the key... key to doing _what_ exactly?”

“Closing the breach” Cassandra says matter-of-fact, “Whether that is true remains to be seen, but your marks are our only chance... and yours.”

“You think we're guilty” Rorie has stumbled forward, fists clenched tight and a burning glare flickering in his teal eyes, “You still think we did this to ourselves?” He gestures to the breach, snarling every word as if they could wound.

“Not intentionally!” Cassandra snaps, spinning on her heel to take a step away, running a hand through her hair in frustration, “Something _clearly_ went wrong” she turns back around, resolve regained in the strength of her jaw, “whatever the case, you are our only suspects... if you wish to claim your innocence, then _prove it_.”

A contemplative silence falls between the three of them, until Cahiral sighs, stepping in between the mage and warrior trying to burn holes into each other.

“We don't seem to have a choice... we're yours, Cassandra... for now.” Cahiral bristles with her own words, a chill shooting up her spine at the idea of voluntarily being at this woman's mercy.

Cassandra narrows her eyes but doesn't argue. Instead, she beckons them forward so that she could watch their backs, make sure they didn't run, and that none of the vultures circling them in the form of Haven's bitter populous would swoop in for the kill.

Cassandra urges them onward despite the murderous glares they're given, the blacksmith all but stops her work to spit at the elves, mustering enough to look bashful at the Seeker's glower. Other townsfolk grow silent, watching them pass, bated breath, to see if their right hand of the Divine would allow them their vengeance.

“They've already decided your guilt, they need it to... to believe that our divine, wasn't taken from us for nothing. Divine Justinia is—she _was_ our most holy. The conclave was hers, it was a chance for peace, all this bloodshed would come to an end and instead-” she sucks in a shuddering breath and Cahiral swears she sees the glisten of tears being held back when she glances at their captor, “-instead we have this chaos. She brought the mages and templars together, their leaders... but now they are all dead.”

Cassandra stops them outside Haven's gates that shut behind them with a clack, and she turns to Cahiral and Rorie, looking almost sympathetic, brows furrowed in sorrow, “We lash out like the sky, they... we need someone to blame… but we must think beyond ourselves, as Justinia did.” the blade she unsheathes from her hip makes Cahiral jump, nerves flaring until the binds on her wrists are cut much to her surprise, glancing at Rorie when the seeker repeats with him... despite his magic, despite what threat they could pose to her.

Though even outnumbering the woman, they both still trembled with each breath, any escape attempt would be easily foiled unless they were able to regain their strength.

As long as the breach ripped every ounce of will out of them with each vivid pulse, that wasn't happening.

“Until the breach is sealed, you two are our only hope.” Cassandra admits this with a frown, “There will be a trial, I can promise no more.”

“A trial?” Cahiral snorts, wringing her wrists in an attempt to sooth the rope burn, “Us, dalish, in the midst of a human court? Might as well execute us once we've done your dirty work.”

Rorie scowls, his expression darkening, “We wouldn't last a day. If we survive this then Cahiral will get at best an execution—“ he stops, nails digging into his palms in fury at the idea of a hangman's noose or executioner's ax bearing down on her. And worse, there's the humans and their love of the brand, stripping him of everything but his life. He wouldn't even be able to mourn her.

That is if they survive the breach first, if they can even get there through the sounds of battle.

Cassandra hardens her gaze at him, not liking where his accusations have gone, but, again, she doesn't argue her case. Instead she turns away, waving dismissively over her shoulder.

“We are losing daylight and we need to test your marks on something smaller than the breach, come with me.”

Rorie scowls at her back, but follows her begrudgingly, scuffing his boots on the snow dusted cobblestones of Haven’s main bridge towards the gates where a pair of guards watch them coming, shifting uncomfortably on their feet.

They nod in respect to the seeker, but one in particular sneers at him and Cahiral, her hand gripping the hilt of her ax too tightly to be casual. She wouldn’t attack them, right? Not with Cassandra’s authority protecting them.

He’s distracted from the grimacing guard when Cahiral snags his sleeve, falling closely in step with him.

“Rorie” Her voice still aches from screaming, from every wretched gasp pulled from her since waking. But even with that dry scratch he finds a little bit of comfort hearing her speak again.

“Keeper never told you something about this? Or something like it?” She wrings her wrists as they pass through the main gates without trouble despite the guard who spits the ground behind them.

Rorie looks at her then at the breach, pulling his arms around himself in an attempt to stop the shiver that racks up his spine.

“No” he admits with a defeated sigh, “She never mentioned anything like it.” He can tell that doesn’t give Cahiral any comfort, her silver eyes looking worriedly up at the sky. He can’t remember anything like this from Keeper’s studies, if he didn’t know better, he’d say it was Fen’harel’s work. But it was in the heart of a human conclave, mages and Templars, not long gone gods and trickster spirits looking for a laugh.

She massages her infected hand errantly, digging her thumb into her palm to silence the whispers if only for a moment. She’s afraid, though she won’t admit it, the humans think _they_ had something to do with it. And why shouldn’t they? They were the only survivors. All the evidence screams that she and Rorie did this. Infected with these shards engrained in their hands, who wouldn’t think they’d done it? But...what if they had?

The whole 'no memory' thing was a shitty story too. Frustration and anger twisted tightly in her stomach, a potent mix of anxiety and adrenaline.

They continue following Cassandra, walking past soldiers leaning heavily on shoddy barricades, catching their breath, limbs weak with exhaustion, one or two passed out on the side of the road. Probably the only respite they’ve had in a long while.

The breach swirls above them, nauseous green interrupted by putrid black and the broiling of storm clouds. The twisting column of crystallized lightning leading up to it from the temple of sacred ashes burned in fire made of the fade, humming in anticipation of the next pulse to take them.

They’d figured out that each pulse had a different flavor, a different kind of pain tearing into them all at once, some lasted longer, and others barely allowed them to react to the pain before vanishing.

She’d tense with every errant flicker, trying to brace for the pain when it didn’t come, then being caught completely unaware when it’d hit them like a storm. There was barely a rhythm to the pulses except ‘coming faster’ and no amount of luck would give them the luxury—a furious crack breaks the stilling silence of snowfall. The breach roars, growling and spitting out hot fireballs of fade, summoning demons wherever they fall.

The pulse snags Cahiral’s hand, a stiletto of red hot iron piercing through her. She doesn’t have time to react though when Rorie stumbles back into her and she scrambles to catch him. His hand is clutched to his chest, eyes screwed shut when his knees give out beneath him and the only reason he doesn’t collapse is because Cahiral manages to find the wall for support. The crumbling rock wall bordering the cliff side collapsing a little more with their weight.

Then it’s over and Cahiral sucks in a scathing breath burning in her lungs, “ _Fenhedis_ that’s getting old.” She seethes, helping Rorie back to his feet. Cassandra gives them both a pitying look.

It's the first emotion Cahiral’s seen from the seeker that didn’t accuse or threaten them, but the pity isn’t much of an improvement so she meets it with a scowl until the seeker turns away.

“You okay?” she mumbles to Rorie, watching him press his hands to his chest to physically force his lungs to breathe proper.

“No” he retorts bitterly, sighing under his breath, “Let’s just… get this over with. Worry about being okay if we survive.”

Cahiral scoffs, agitated with his ‘if’ but votes not to argue when Cassandra starts explaining how they miraculously survived the blast. At least, according to what her soldiers reported when they found the elves.

“They say you stepped out of a rift, weak and delirious” Cassandra says, leading them onwards, slowing her gait to accommodate their struggling to follow, “There was a woman behind you before the rift shut and you both fell unconscious. It’s been several days since, every day bringing more and more demons from the breach.” She breaks a little at the end of her monologue, Cahiral noticing her face wince in pain of the emotional kind.

Her and her soldiers have been fighting since the beginning, and given the state of their defenses now, it must have been a slaughter.

Cahiral would be tempted to apologize if the woman hadn’t been so ready to snarl threats not half an hour ago.

They make it to a bridge spanning over a frozen waterway, the ice below trenched in dark blue, swallowing the green reflections from the breach. Cahiral peers over the edge of the bridge as they cross, the burning in her hand crying for relief from the fire and the ice looks far too inviting. The whispers crawling up her arm are never audible but she can feel them telling her that it’s futile.

She’s about to ask Rorie if he’s hearing the prying voices when the breach snaps, booming loudly and releasing several meteors swathed in fire plummeting to the ground.

“Brace yourselves!” Cassandra shouts in warning when one such fireball dives right for them, Cahiral backpedaling in an attempt to get away when it collides with the bridge and it crumbles like ash beneath her, swallowing her shout with the crack of stone.

Rorie cries out when he hits the rubble of what used to be the bridge and tumbles to the ice. His ribs throb with the abuse and he can feel the bruises he’ll find there tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow.

“ _Fenhedis lasa_ ” he hisses, tasting blood as he rolls onto his side, hands slipping on the ice biting like needles where it seeps through his gloves.

A hand grabs him by the arm before he can really recover, hauling him to his feet and he grimaces, thinking it Cahiral until he recognizes that the grip isn’t kind and he looks up to the woman called Cassandra, her brown eyes wide and fierce.

“Stay back.” She pushes him away, his boots slipping on the ice and he has to cling to the rocks to stop from falling.

“What? Wh-“ he freezes when she draws her blade and for one brilliant moment he thinks she’s going to cut her losses.

But then he sees the poison black fog slithering on the ice, green cracks grasping forward where a figure in tattered cloth climbs out of the freezing water, sopping wet, crystals of ice already settling on its body. A mouthless face turns on them, growling the way shades do, wet and bubbling from its throat, observing them with one shining greedy eye. Its tattered body twitches in the cold, hunched back heaving with ragged choked breath. Its arms, coiled in sinew and tipped in talons grasp at air, and it screeches delightedly at the sight of such delicious prey.

Cassandra charges before it can rush them. Before it can dig blade like claws into flesh, instead being thrown back by her shield, hissing like too many snakes in retaliation. A blind swing makes its claws sing against her armor, metal on metal shrieking in Rorie’s ears.

He’s tempted to aid the woman, searching the dregs of his magic for the power he’d need for a few spells that would cripple the shade at least.

“Rorie!” Cahiral’s wounded voice distracts him, wrenching his attention away and any spell on his lips sputters and dies with the realization that a similar boiling green portal that the shade had crawled out of is shaping beneath his feet.

He jumps back, scrambling up a pile of rubble, yanking his magic to his fingertips to struggle with whatever pulls to the surface, praying that it’s something small like a wisp.

The fluttering cloak of a shade surfaces, claws digging into the ice as it hoists itself out of the swallowing black, shuddering and a chortle hisses from its throat upon seeing unarmed prey. A cold chill clenches his throat shut as he stumbles away, grabbing at any spell that comes to mind.

“ _Isa’ma’lin!_ ” He hears Cahiral shout from somewhere behind him. A staff clatters to the ground in front of him, he snatches it up before he can ask where in Thedas Cahiral found it—the extra focus will afford him the spells he needs, one already spilling from his lips and lighting the shade on fire.

It screams, horrid sounds like the screeches of owls bellowing from the creature’s throat, turning into a furious growl as it scrambles after him. He lashes out, striking the creature with the bladed end of the staff, swinging the mace tip around to smash it into the shade’s head, knocking it off balance and crumbling to the ice in shock.

He utters another spell, lightning jumping from his fingertips, flaring out to entangle the creature, flailing in an attempt to brush the lightning off, scratching at itself until it screams.

Nausea swims in Rorie’s stomach and he has to swallow harshly to keep himself from dry heaving, gasping one last spell to put the mindless creature out of its misery, crumbling into dust once it perishes, fading away into the swells of ice.

He almost has a chance to relax, gasping for breath and clinging to the staff to stay on his feet, scolding himself for how weak just a few spells have made him. If he’d been at full strength he could have been able to kill the creature on the first immolate. Instead he’s struggling to just breathe steady and stay on his feet.

When he looks up from taking a few deep recovering breaths, Cassandra’s already dealt with her enemy, turning on him and, upon seeing the staff, her eyes widen and a snarl curls her lip, advancing on him with her sword gleaming in the light of the breach.

“Drop your weapon!” she demands, stopping a distance from him, ready to either jump to cut him down or defend herself, “ _Now_ ”.

He doesn’t. He tells himself its more because he needs it to fight and less because, if he does let it go, he’ll collapse.

He’s not going to let the seeker know that though.

“I don’t need a staff to fight.” He states, ignoring how his hands shake in favor of putting all his muster behind his posture, standing to his full height, and squaring his shoulders in challenge.

Cassandra narrows her eyes at him, then her eyes flicker up behind him and she bites her lip, considering for a long moment. Long enough to settle uncomfortably between them, until finally she sighs, sheathing her sword as she steps back.

“You are…right… you don’t need a staff to perform magic, but you’ll need it for the fight ahead.” She turns away, facing the breach, allowing the silence to collect her thoughts.

“I should remember that neither of you tried to run… we should rest for a bit before moving on.”

He folds at that, dropping onto the nearest pile of rubble to finally catch his breath, thanking the creators for giving this woman the sympathy to let her charges recover for a moment.

Speaking of charges—he twists to search for Cahiral, spotting her at the top of the pile of stone that used to be the bridge, a new wound on her head bleeding but otherwise no worse for wear.

She’s where Cassandra had looked behind him before deciding on letting him keep the staff, a scuffed up great sword in her hands that he bets she’d been halfway to attacking Cassandra with if she’d so much as laid a hand on him. On one hand, he’s thankful she has his back, as always, on the other… her protective recklessness was starting to wear on him. She’d always thrown herself in danger for him, ever since they were kids… it’s also one reason why she has the pulsing green mark tearing her apart as much as it is him. Instead of being home, safe, and away from this disaster.

He is grateful for her, _and_ frustrated by her.

She’s polishing the sword with her sash, grimacing at the poor quality of it, already damaged from the bridge collapse, but it was better than nothing. She sheathes it in the empty bands on her back where she used to keep her old sword, now missing the familiar feel of ironbark in her hands and a silver blade that positively _sung_ in battle.

But that blade was probably ash by now, eaten by the explosion that consumed the temple.

She smiles when she spots Rorie looking at her as she picks her way down the rubble.

“Here” She hands him a flask when she lands safely at the bottom, blue liquid inside it glowing gently, thrumming with the soothing music of lyrium.

“ _Ma serannas asa’ma’lin_ ” he sighs in relief, and gulps the potion down perhaps too quickly, coughing into his elbow when he chokes on the last drop.

“Don’t get hiccups.” Cahiral teases, eyes glimmering in mirth before she lifts her own vial to her lips, gold liquid inside swishing with her movements until she swallows it whole, eyes closed and humming pleasantly.

“ _Finally_ ” she gasps, sighing as if she’d drunk the finest elvhen spirits and not a military quality stamina potion, “I can catch my breath.” She grins at him, reinvigorated for the fight ahead, comforted in the jingle of potions at her hip that she stole from the crashed supplies she’d landed on after the collapse.

“We should get moving.” They both look up when Cassandra returns from skirting their immediate perimeter. She looks cautious, surveying their surroundings with the utmost suspicion. It’s a relief that she’s not directing that suspicion at them.

“Maker knows what we will face ahead, but staying here isn’t an option.”

Rorie stops himself from groaning out loud, huffing a short breath as he pulls himself to his feet. His body aches, the lyrium potion has helped, but he’s exhausted and a bed of snow looks about as inviting as an aravel.

He nearly jumps when Cahiral nudges him, startling him as if he’d dozed off.

“Eyes front” she teases but he can see her worry.

“How are you so energetic?” He asks, disbelieving that her chipper smile is anything but fake.

“I may or may not have taken more than the recommended dose of stamina potions back there.” She admits, grinning when he rolls his eyes.

“Cheater” he gives her a wry smile, ignoring how she positively _beams_ in reaction.

Their banter is interrupted when Cassandra waves for them to quiet down. She’d led them off the path, working their way forward to Cassandra’s mystery destination.

What that really meant, neither of them were entirely sure, but if they made it to Cassandra’s rift, they’d figure it out.

“Up ahead, shades.” Cassandra gestures, pointing to a couple lingering figures, idle without the immediate threat of combat, lumbering over a small frozen lake. Slick ground for the warriors to fight on, but Cahiral was usually up for that kind of challenge. The stamina potions made her confident in her ability to at least defend herself from the unknown enemy.

She hasn't had a lot of practice fighting shades back in the clan but… they perish like any other enemy.

“I like it when they shatter.” Cahiral grins at Rorie, laughing when he prepares a winter’s grasp in his palm, blanketing his hand in ice.

“ _Vir’ghilas ghi’myal_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Isa’ma’lin!”  
> “Brother!”
> 
> “Ma serannas asa’ma’lin”  
> “Thank you, sister”
> 
> “Vir’ghilas ghi’myal”  
> “Let’s go hunting”


	3. I had to

**III.**

The quarrel with the shades is over quick enough, reinvigorated by potions and armed, Rorie and Cahiral fight like they’re of one mind. His magic surges past her, freezing the shade solid as her blade crashes down on it. The creature shatters in an explosion of ice, leaving only shards in its wake.

The wisps that linger are of little consequence. Bolts of energy sting a little against Cahiral’s defenses but bounce right off of Cassandra’s shield. When the warriors strike down on them the wisps die with curdled gasps, their crumpled figures blown away by the freezing wind.

“We’re getting close to the rift.” Cassandra says in a heave of breath, grasping for a stamina potion in her pouch. She swallows it whole and tosses the vial aside, shattering on the ice, searching for the way forward as she does.

“Prepare for more, the closer to the rift the stronger they are.”

Cahiral’s triumphant smile from battle fades with the report.

Demons were new foes to her. There’s nothing familiar about how her blade slices through them. Shades, it’s like cutting through a column of ash. Wisps swim around her sword to the point where she's not sure she's cut them unless they squeal in pain. Nothing like fighting people, nothing like hunting animals.

But Rage? Despair? She’s heard stories and seen illustrations but the thought of resisting their temptations in the middle of battle sends a chill crawling up her spine. Her knuckles go white around the hilt of the stolen sword. The whispers taunt on the edge of her hearing, never words, never fully there. She's not strong enough, not skilled enough. She doesn't know anything about this.

“Rorie-“ She chokes, looking at him with wide eyes.

“ _Lethallan, hamin_.” He reassures quickly. He can see the panic seizing her, the color in her face draining, “They die like any other.”

Cassandra hesitates, turning on a heel to look back at them, halfway to the shoddy staircase leading up the blackened cliff side. She's watching Cahiral curiously, brows furrowed and words on the tip of her tongue.

“You... haven’t had a lot of experience fighting demons” it’s not a question, and Cahiral flushes more with embarrassment than the cold, closing her mouth with a click.

But the seeker doesn’t scoff, when she speaks there is no haughty lording. “The Rage demons are vulnerable to ice and they can be blocked,” she explains, “Terror... they will appear out of the ground to knock you down, get away from them and muffle your ears when they scream.” Cahiral blinks owlishly at the woman, stunned. She shoots Rorie a glance, though he's looking equally surprised.

Cassandra either doesn't notice the exchange or elects to ignore it.

”Despair is difficult, let the archers and mages handle those. We haven’t seen Pride at the smaller rifts, we most likely won’t. Avoid their lightning attacks and get behind them. But we must hurry, you can hear the fighting.” She gestures up the winding cliff side path that will feed them to a renewed battle, the sounds of it pouring over the edge.

“Who?” Cahiral stumbles after the warrior up the steps half covered in ice. Rorie falls in with her, breathing fire into his hands in an attempt to stave off the cold gnawing into his skin.

“You’ll see.” Cassandra replies, losing a bit of breath at the peak of the stairs, breaking past the blanket of blue shadow from the cliff into the blinding white sunlight filtered through the storm clouds.

Sunken ruins greet them, nestled in the snow, stone glistening in ice—it’s almost a picturesque scene. If it weren't for the squabble going on in the center. A cluster of giant green crystals coil lazily in the air, Cassandra's rift perhaps? A dwarf and a mage are fighting off a smattering of shades, both long range specialists forced into close quarters, out maneuvered and outnumbered.

Cassandra doesn't wait, she grabs for her sword and charges with a fierce shout. She's over the drop into the ruins with one flying leap, sinking her blade into the back of a demon cornering the dwarf that's pin-cushioning it with crossbow bolts.

There's some kind of brief exchange between the two of them before getting back into the fray. Cahiral thinks she hears a rough and wheezing voice laugh and ask what took the seeker so long. A question Cassandra doesn't dignify with anything more than a disgusted noise.

“Cahiral” Rorie stops her from making the short drop down, a hand on her arm. He casts a barrier over the both of them, bathing them in glittering blue light, enough to keep attacks at bay for a short while.

“I’ll stay here, attack from above, _lasa ghilan lethallan_ ” he smiles weakly, but he’s betrayed by the worry that's gripped him cold. The mark that's been so dormant now crackles in his palm, a reaction to the closed rift ahead.

Cahiral grabs for his hand before he can pull away, their marks twisting in contact, flaring and sputtering like angry coals.

“ _Lasa ghilan_ ” she says in earnest, squeezing his hand before running after Cassandra. The drop makes her ankles sting, but she ignores the ache seeping into her in favor of launching into battle.

The cracked stone beneath her feet is solid and welcome as she charges a shade, cutting it down by taking a gash out of its side, a burst of fire shooting over her head to hit the thing and make it scream. It crumples to the ground with a shuddering gasp, its remains decaying to scraps of cloth and ash taken away by the wind.

Suddenly the ground beneath her melts, slipping beneath her boots and oozing in a searing heat. She jumps back, breath catching in her throat as ice in every direction melts, hissing in rivulets of vapor. A bubbling voice slithers from the portal of fire emblazoned in stone. A pair of fierce red eyes narrow at her in delight, an arm of magma peeling out of the ruins floor to haul the demon out of the pool of twisted stone.

Sweat makes her grip slick on the sword as the demon pulls to its full height, too tall, breath stammering in her chest, too fast, black gripping the edges of her sight in fear. The demon rumbles, a growl or laugh, towering over her in a column of pure liquid fire. And then it _howls_ , voice like shale stone gargling in its throat and lunges for her.

Its hand tightens around her arm, grip searing like hot oil on her skin, the leather of her gauntlet sizzling and bubbling, edges curling black. Her throat closes up, blood pounding in her ears as winter’s cold flees her body in a rush. The demon opens its mouth in a toothless grin, flying embers scalding on her cheek. Tongues of fire crawl up its throat, shooting forward to consume her—until a spear of ice shoots into its shoulder.

The demon _shrieks_ as it falters back, hissing at a flurry of ice that pummels into its pelt, Rorie’s furious work.

Cahiral stumbles away, seething at the burn surging in her arm, cradling it against her stomach. The fear trembling in her heart twists into something angrier, hot teeth gnashing at the bit as she switches her grip to something she can manage one-handed and charges the demon.

Her blade sinks into it like wax, cleaving through its chest, coursing down from the shoulder that shatters in ice, fat droplets of fire spattering against the ground as she yanks her sword free.

The demon half collapses, grasping at its wound with its good arm in some attempt to seal it. But a crossbow bolt in the neck makes it squeal and gurgle, melting back into the portal from where it came. Just like that it slips away. A smoky gasp precedes the portal cooling to a vortex of scalded stone forever warped by the demon's touch, veins like burning coals flickering out.

She's about to look for the dwarf to thank him for the aid when someone grabs her arm. She yelps when the burns in her skin are disregarded by the hand gripping too tight, yanking her forward. It belongs to the mage fighting alongside the crossbowman, an elf, his face stern and bathed in the raging green light of the rift.

“Quickly!” He snares her attention away from the pain, from him, looking up to see that the crystallized rift had torn wide open, a gaping maw peering in on the world of spirits, fluttering like silk. Clutching veins sift around the edges, and the mark in her palm sputters to life when the elf lifts her hand to the rift.

“Before more come through!”

All her pain shoots to the mark, a tiny pinpoint coiling in her bones and snapping out like a whip to snatch at the rift. The mark shatters wide open, crystal clawing through her tendons and lurching forward. An arc of the twisting chaotic energy spans the gap between, burning bright, writhing like a living thing. She grits her teeth to stop her scream, she’s dropped her sword and the world around her feels a thousand leagues away. There’s nothing but the fade, the whispers, and the demons watching her on the other side of the rift. It flares wild and untamed, jagged thorns and grasping hands pulling her in—then with a loud _snap_ it’s over. The rift claps shut and she nearly collapses, gasping for breath and the world crashes back down around her.

“My apologies.” She’s brought back to the stranger still gripping her blistered arm, his hands now gentle as he peels off the gauntlet with the utmost care. The leather hadn’t melted into her skin luckily, and she’s surprised the burns aren’t as bad as they’d felt when the demon had her gripped tight.

“Hold still.” He tucks the gauntlet under his arm, fumbling for a potion in his satchel. She recognizes the warm green tonic inside the vial, small shreds of elfroot leaves swirling in the mix. It looks soothing, until the stranger yanks the cork off with his teeth and pours it on her burns.

She seethes, hissing at the pain and resisting the urge to jerk away. He’s digging in his satchel again, removing a wad of woven jute cloth that he uses to cover the burns, wrapping the wound, sufficient enough for a field treatment.

“That should last for now, you’ll need to get the bandages changed after this but I don’t expect any lasting ill effects.” He returns her gauntlet with a soft smile, slate grey eyes crinkling warmly.

The smile slips the slightest when his eyes flicker to her left, she follows to see Rorie dusting snow off his gloves as he approaches, an effect of the ice magic he cast. His eyes flash with a hint of worry towards her, placated when she smirks at him, no worse for wear.

He looks relieved, turning to the man before them, “Thank you for the help.“

“Yes! For the elfroot and the—” Cahiral fumbles, before wiggling her fingers towards where the rift used to be, no trace that it’d even existed besides the signs of battle.

The man laughs, and Cahiral believes she likes the noise, before he shakes his head, “You’re welcome, but I did not seal the rift. I’d theorized that the marks would be able to close the rifts, and it seems I was correct.” His smile returns, proud of himself.

Rorie hums, looking down at the irritated mark thrumming beneath his glove, “At least the marks are good for something.”

“Yes. The magic in your marks is similar if not the same to the magic that caused the tear in the sky.” The elf explains, “So, quite possibly, you both should be able to seal the breach, much like you had this smaller rift.”

“You know” Cahiral begins, picking up her discarded blade to return it to her back, crossing her arms, ginger on the burns, and sinking into a hip, “Cassandra’s description of our resident fade expert didn’t do you justice.”

Rorie makes an aborted noise in his throat, giving her a scathing look. The stranger, for his part, looks surprised, then narrows his eyes in delight.

Cassandra, who’d been off to the side talking heatedly with the blond dwarf turns her attention to the three elves when her name is mentioned, rolling her eyes and groaning, “I did no such—if we could _please_ focus on the matter at hand?”

“Of course Lady Seeker.” Cahiral replies with a wink that earns her another disgusted noise from said seeker.

Cassandra looks like she wants to reprimand the other woman for… for _flirting_ in the middle of this chaos. Instead, she turns to the unfamiliar elf, “Solas, do you truly believe their marks can seal the breach?”

“I—yes… in theory. Given the experiment here, combined they should be able to have at least a positive effect.”

“Good to know!” The dwarf who’d been silent all the while speaks up, checking his gauntlets nonchalantly before looking up at the lot of them. He smiles, molten amber eyes glittering with mischief.

“And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

“Depends” Cahiral replies quickly before Cassandra can even so much as open her mouth, “Whose ass are we talking about? Yours or mine?”

“ _Lethallan_ ” Rorie glares at her, ears burning, but the dwarf is grinning, clearly enjoying the… _banter_.

Cassandra, however, is not, her face set in a stern glower, pointedly annoyed with the freckled elf, her cheeks gone pink.

Another thing the dwarf seems pleased with, shooting the woman a wink of his own, “Varric Tethras, at your service. Charming rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

Rorie frowns, considering the man for a moment, then the one called Solas, confused, “Are you with the chantry?”

On cue there’s that noise Cahiral likes, Solas laughing more out of surprise than anything, “Is that what you think?”

“I must have misplaced my iron shackles. No, I’m a prisoner, just like you two.” Varric supplies in answer.

Cassandra gestures at him for it, “That’s not—I brought you here, Varric, to speak with the Divine… clearly that is no longer necessary.” She retorts dryly.

“Lucky for you I decided to offer my services, it’s the least I could do, considering current events.” Varric’s voice is laced with sarcasm, Rorie and Cahiral exchanging wary looks.

Bad blood between the rogue and the seeker aside, having him along would only help in the struggle to the forward camp.

Cassandra seems to realize this as well, scoffing and turning away, “So long as you three” she gestures to the two mages and crossbowman “-stay out of range, we are losing daylight and the valley grows only more dangerous the longer we wait.”

“Don’t mind her. She’s all bark and no bite.” Varric says with a chuckle.

“Tell that to my nose” Cahiral points out. The adrenaline of battle had made the split on her bridge numb, now a noisy throbbing in her head instead of the screeching needle sharp pain it had been.

Though the mark made it feel like child’s play, and even then, that was slowly becoming familiar.

Varric snorts, choking on a laugh, “I stand corrected”

“It was your fault, _Lethallan_ ” Rorie mumbles, earning himself a scowl on her part.

“…maybe. Woman has elbows of steel.”

“More like iron forged in the furnace of the faithful if that armor of hers is anything to go by.” Varric mutters under his breath, out of ear shot of the seeker now scoping their perimeter. Vigilant as ever.

“Regardless of injury, I am pleased to see you both yet live.” Solas interjects, “While you were unconscious, I was not certain the marks wouldn’t consume you before we had a chance to seal the breach.”

“Not for a lack of trying, he means. He kept those marks from killing you both.” Varric insists helpfully, giving his comrade a knowing look. Humility wasn’t on his agenda.

“How do you know so much about it all? No one else seems to have any idea, and I’ve never heard of anything like this.” Rorie asks curiously, giving the apostate his attention.

Cahiral doesn’t interrupt, looking expectantly at Solas. Any kind of answer would be welcome.

Solas seems surprised at the undivided attention, hesitating for a breath, “My… travels have allowed me to learn much of the fade. Far beyond that of any circle mage or, dare I say, Dalish.” he pauses, waiting for offense perhaps or righteous indignation.

Neither give it to him, Rorie tilting his head in concession, Cahiral murmuring “That’s fair”

Solas seems surprised for a second before continuing, “When I saw the breach I came to offer what help I could…if it’s not closed, and soon, then I fear we will all be doomed, regardless of origin.”

“That’s fair too.” Cahiral sighs, all humor eked out of her as she looks up at the breach, “That thing’s going to keep getting bigger. Looks like it’s just you and me.” She smiles at Rorie, her expression pinched in worry.

Solas and Varric seem to gauge the atmosphere between the two, Varric saying something about checking up on the seeker, the two of them stepping away to join the seeker.

There is a yelp of indignation from that direction, Cassandra aghast that they left the two prisoners _alone_ before Varric placates her with false promises. Where would the two elves run anyway?

“Rorie…” Cahiral pauses, wringing her fingers, watching the breach swirl above the ruins of the conclave, burning the sky in its vivacious green, tainting the sun dark and casting the world in gloom.

“How are we supposed to do this?” Her voice wavers and she clears her throat to try and hide it, rubbing the back of her neck nervously, “I mean… how are we getting out of this? Because—I just don't see it.”

He stares at her, speechless for a moment at her faltering optimism, he’s rarely ever seen her crumble like this, and last time… last time was different. But last time she didn't have a magical rift engrained in her palm.

The mark burns uncomfortably, reminding him that it’s there. It crackles under his skin, a stinging pain coursing beneath the surface. Murmurs swim in his veins that he’s learned to ignore through so many years of walking his dreams, spirits whispering sweet things and tantalizing promises.

But Cahiral wasn’t a mage, and that fact hits him quite suddenly.

“Are you hearing things?” her eyes snap to him, color falling from her face in an instant.

“I… Maybe? I-I can’t _hear_ , can’t understand anything. I know it’s just the mark but… _Elgar’nan_ Rorie how do you manage?”

“Practice” he says which gives him a roll of her eyes, but the wily smirk that purses her lips is welcome and familiar.

“Oh is that all?”

“You'll get used to it, I promise.” Rorie gives her a reassuring smile though he barely feels it himself. She'll get used to it, but she wouldn't have to if she hadn't followed him. She would've been home, safe.

Or she could've been dead.

And he wouldn’t even know. Turned to ash by what caused the breach and he wouldn’t know until a letter from home came telling him that she’d followed him to the conclave, that she hadn't been heard from since. And it’d have been his fault.

“Hey” he starts when her hands grip his shoulders, bringing him back to the biting winds and frozen air almost too thin to breathe.

“One way or another we're getting out of this.” she promises, “We'll seal the breach and while everyone is looking up in absolute _awe_ of what we accomplished we'll make our escape.”

He snorts, shaking his head, “I almost believe you.”

She just smiles, “I almost believe me too.”

And for a moment, it’s true.

“If we could move on.” Cassandra interrupts quite suddenly, returning from her perimeter check. He can feel Cahiral's fingers grip tighter on his shoulders before she sighs and let’s go, turning to the seeker.

“Lead the way m’lady”

“ _Cassandra_ will do fine” The woman corrects with a frown, she'd looked regretful at having to interrupt what was clearly a moment, but all that shatters with a darkening temper.

“The way ahead is blocked. Luckily if we follow the bank it should take us to our destination.”

She twists on her heel to gesture to the gateway leading up the road. It’s been blockaded, debris from wagons and crates sealing the gates. Most likely to stop demons from pouring in on the other side.

She then points to a path partially hidden, encased in the cold blue shadow of the opposing cliff side. Solas and Varric are already heading up along the frozen river bank.

Begrudgingly, the two follow their jailor, never too far behind lest they receive a nasty look from her.

The ravine opens up to a lake twisting through the mountain pass. It’s all completely frozen over, shards of deep blue ice split with white spears of snow and reflecting the venomous green cascading above.

It’s all quiet on the lake, just the howling wind cutting over the mountain peaks, the crackle in the air from the breach, but otherwise, quiet, as the smallest snowflakes fall gingerly from the sky. It’d almost be a nice picnic spot.

“Oh-” Solas' voice breaks the silence, turning to Cahiral and Rorie, “My apologies, I did not formally introduce myself earlier. My name is Solas.” He’s all friendly smiles, something knowing in his expression.

Cahiral offers the apostate a crooked smile as she gives him an obvious once over, from blackened jawbone hanging on his neck to scuffed boots.

“Cahiral” she says, “of clan Lavellan. The one with the charming looks-” Rorie scowls at her, “-is my brother, Rorie.”

Cassandra makes a surprised noise at that, her brows furrowed.

“I didn’t… forgive me but you do not look related.” She’s forgotten her bitter countenance in her shock, looking at Cahiral, bright eyes and olive skin dusted in a whirlwind of freckles, and Rorie, teal eyes and red undertones throughout his darker skin. The fact that Cahiral has charcoal hair and his takes a more pearlescent tone also seems to baffle the seeker.

They’re not polar opposites, but neither do they share any particular feature.

“Adopted” Cahiral says, “at least, that’s what you humans would call it, Lavellan wasn’t my first clan.”

The derisive snort from Solas’ direction surprises everyone, eyes turning to see him shaking his head disdainfully, the party now stopped halfway in crossing the frozen lake, slick underfoot.

“You are not a mage” he explains, looking at the dalish warrior, “I am just surprised that your original clan traded you so.”

Cahiral actually sputters, staring at Solas and Rorie can see her bristling, spine straighter. He feels his own hackles raise, wary, his grip on his staff tightening and wringing the wood.

“Where… why do you think that I was traded?” The way Solas said it made it sound like she was a bargain.

“Oh, abandoned then, for population control, yes?” That wasn't much better.

Cahiral narrows her eyes baring her teeth as she snarls back, “My people aren't cattle.”

“Surely? With how quick your clans cast off your young-”

“You should quit while you're ahead” the mark on her hand snaps as she does, lashing out and coiling like lightning fighting against her grip. Varric and Cassandra back away, wide eyed in surprise.

“Am I wrong?” Solas prods, ignoring the marks, Rorie's simmering like his mood, lips pursed thin and vivid light flickering in his fist.

“ _Yes_ ” It’s unclear who said it first, Cahiral loud in an indignant snarl, Rorie seething as if burned.

Solas sneers, about to argue, only for Cassandra to step bodily between the three of them.

“ _Enough_ ” her voice echoes in the basin they’ve found themselves in, giving Solas a stern look and twisting to her charges.

“We aren’t here to settle your disputes. We’re here to try and seal the breach, if you have discrepancies they _will_ be solved later. Are we clear?”

Solas lifts his hands in surrender, backing away from the conflict, “Of course, Cassandra.”

Cahiral chews her lip, itching to fight, but puffs a breath and backs away herself, Rorie grumbling their concession, “Very well.”

* * *

They reach the forward camp on the coattails of sunset. Or, they think its sunset. The sky behind the breach is tinged in violet, but the furious green bathing the world grim and eerie stops other luminous colors from painting the sky.

Their other notion is that it’s gotten increasingly colder, breath freezing mid-air and the warmth of battle becomes a welcome feeling.

Not that the fighting is particularly dense in this stretch of mountainous terrain and winding paths. Wisps hover around, lingering, twitching to themselves and confused in this stagnant world, attacking without mind. Shades have been their only other foe, larger demons dormant for now, and with Cahiral's burned arm, she's grateful for their slumber.

“Oh thank the Maker.” Cassandra gasps, weary and tired, when they crest the final set of carved mountain side stairs. Her sword arm drags a little much as she tries to resist showing her exhaustion.

The guards at the gate fumble at the sight of their ragtag party, pushing the gates open and loudly announcing their arrival, “Lady Nightingale! Seeker Pentaghast has arrived.” Despite the announcement, there isn't a bustle of activity, soldiers scrambling over each other to salute or a burst of activity to tend to the party just come in from travel.

Instead, sallow faced soldiers look up, half-heartedly saluting Cassandra when they muster the strength, otherwise keeping to themselves.

The forward camp itself isn't much to look at. Its a bridge spanning over a lethal drop down a chasm, brimmed with slate, razor sharp teeth waiting for an unfortunate to fall.

Luckily, the bridge is high walled, guarding against the breezy mountain winds, not so much against the cold. The torches and braziers lit only provide a small envelope of warmth around them, and a majority are taken by the huddling men and women waiting for the next battle.

The gates on either side of the bridge are sealed as soon as they pass, two guards to each door, the forward door opening only to allow wounded soldiers in and release others fresh for fighting.

The whole camp as a sleepy atmosphere, silence between soldiers nearly asleep on their feet, others collapsed on available bed rolls, not even shucking their day's armor before dreams take them.

Cahiral watches all this with a frown, “Demons don't sleep, do they?” She asks Rorie, the grim realization settling on her as he shakes his head, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“No, they don't.”

Down the bridge is the only tent set up, short and billowing in the wind, Leliana appearing from it with a scowl on her lips. She falters when she sees Cassandra, a wave of relief washing over her.

“Thank the Maker, you made it!”

“The bridge collapsed at the bottom of the mountain” Cassandra explains, “We had to find an alternate route.”

“Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, nothing but scrapes and bruises.” She reports, the two of them falling into rapid conversation, explaining their individual reports, news from the valley, and from the remains of the temple. Leliana is mentioning something about sending a scouting party up the mountain pass.

“Speaking of scrapes-” Solas begins, Cahiral and Rorie looking up at him, blinking slowly as the effects of the day start to weigh down on them now that a bedroll is in sight.

“If I could take a look at your arm? The elfroot should have healed most of it but another dose overnight would be a good idea.” He waves over to an upturned crate, waiting for Cahiral to decide if she'll allow him.

She looks over at Rorie, his scowl and furrowed brow suspicious but… Solas was the one with the potions, Rorie had the know how but Cassandra hadn't allowed them more than a couple potions a piece. Just another method of control, they relied on her to give them healing and mana potions when needed. For now, in any case.

Also him lighting up with magic would likely send the tired camp in to full alert, but Solas, an at least familiar if not trusted mage, would get by with a curious glance.

“Go ahead.” Cahiral offers him her arm when she sits on the crate, grimacing as he gingerly eases her gauntlet off and sets it aside. Rorie hovers, keeping an eye on the armed soldiers around them and another on Solas, mouth pursed shut with a darkening scowl.

“In truth, I wanted to apologize.” Solas says as he unwinds the gauze, jute yellowed from sweat.

“To both of you… for earlier.” He glances up at Rorie, “I have not had the best of experiences with the Dalish. But it was unfair of me to accuse your clan of such practices.”

“Yes, it was.” Rorie states, peering at Cahiral's arm when the last of the gauze is pulled back gently, Solas making a surprised but pleased noise in his throat, ignoring Rorie's brusqueness.

Her arm is still red, agitated, but mostly healed, the potency of the elfroot potion enough to clear away most of the burns in an afternoon.

“You've healed well! There shouldn't be any scarring, and no pain by morning.”

“Almost as good as one of your potions, Rorie.” Cahiral hums, looking at the elf in front of her, Solas giving her a strained smile.

The rest of the treatment is spent in silence. Solas dampens clean jute in another elfroot potion, giving the remaining half for Cahiral to swallow, grimacing at the taste as she does.

He finishes cleaning and redressing the wound, leaving without so much of a word, letting her finagle her gauntlet back on, relieved when Rorie assists with a gentle hand.

“ _Ma serannas_ ” she sighs, stretching her fingers in the worn leather.

He makes an uncommitted noise, getting a sharp elbow in his ribs for it that makes him jump.

“What?” he says, perhaps shorter than she deserved, wincing at his own tone.

She frowns at him worriedly, “What's up with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're broodier than normal.”

He glares at her and she grins, hands raised in surrender “Alright, alright, you don't _brood…_ but you're not brimming with sunshine either.” She teases, laughing when he taps his boot against her shin in warning.

“Seriously, Ro, you've been quieter than usual.” she waits expectantly.

He sighs, crossing his arms and looking to where Leliana and Cassandra are talking animatedly, likely deciding his and Cahiral's fates.

“...just thinking...” he finally replies, watching the camp as it moves in sluggish motion, energy sapped from the soldiers, morale low in the face of an unknown and powerful enemy.

“You know we can't leave.” his eyes snap to her in surprise, a protest already tumbling past his lips.

“We can't stay, Cahiral-”

“No no, I know that. But we can't just leave either… that thing is going to keep growing” she gestures to the breach, then reaches to grab his marked hand with her own, the two flaring briefly at the connection, getting the attention of a few nearby soldiers.

“And these will kill us if we don't get help.” Rorie scowls and pulls back, pressing his thumb into his palm, watching the mark swim in his skin.

She was right, he could feel it. Hooks dig into his tendons, the mark ingraining itself deeper and deeper until its surely stained his soul.

And then it'd kill them cold.

But these people had about as many answers as he did, they wouldn't be able to help.

“You're right” he grumbles, dropping his head into his hand, letting comforting blackness swarm his sight, “I _know_ you're right… but I don't like this, _lethallan_.”

She laughs, too sharp, nervous, “You and me both.” she taps her heels against the crate beneath her, hesitating when she sucks in a breath—he can hear how she trembles in the shuddering of her lungs.

“Rorie I… I don't have an ounce of magic in me.” She meets his gaze, “But I sealed that rift, this—this _thing_ , this mark, sealed a tear in the veil itself. No one can just do that spontaneously, even a mage, even keeper-” she stops when her voice pitches sharply, breaking on an inhale and she looks away.

He watches her carefully, sees where she's fraying at the edges. He thinks that if the marks weren't involved she wouldn't be breaking like this, but add impending death and magic she's never felt now a part of her...and she doesn't know what do with that.

He makes a notion with his hands for her to scoot over, sitting beside her, knee to knee.

“Why are you so afraid?” He asks in a low voice, she jerking away from him, her brow furrowed.

“Aren't you?”

He hesitates. Of course he was, but sod the breach, the chantry, these humans—he was more worried about her and what effects the mark is having on her that he doesn't notice in himself.

“Yes” he offers simply.

She snorts and shakes her head, looking ahead and leaning her back against the cold stone wall.

Silence lingers between them, waiting, taking comfort that for once all the attention isn't on them.

“I guess...” Cahiral begins, choosing each word carefully, “What if...you know what, nevermind” she bounds to her feet, ignoring the exasperated look he's giving her, “I shouldn't be thinking of what ifs and could've beens.” she turns to him, “fact of the matter is, I caught up with you, we're both alive, you didn't leave a damn note at home-” “Cahiral” “-Keeper was furious by the way, I imagine she's not much happier with me now either.” She flinches, grimacing at the idea of facing an incensed keeper.

When she comes back to herself Rorie is giving her a slightly amused look, tilting his head to the side and brows lifted.

“Are you done?”

“Oh not even—Rorie you could be dead right now, imprisoned, facing execution, and I wouldn't know. If I didn't catch up with you-”

“I didn't plan to get blown up, Cahiral. The mage templar war was affecting all of us and we needed to know about the conclave's verdict. I didn't want-”

Cahiral snorts disdainfully, gesturing up at the breach, “Verdict reached.” she plants her hands on her hips, shaking her head, “ _Elgar'nan_ Rorie...”

“You didn't have to follow me, _lethallan_.” Rorie barely finishes when Cahiral's eyes flash dangerously, mouth pressed firmly into an offended sneer.

“Of course I-”

She's interrupted by a sharp gasp and cry of distress, “Maker's breath! Guards!”

The sleepy atmosphere of the camp is suddenly shattered, both elves looking up to see a man pointing at them, growl curdling his expression.

“Seize them!”

“We're talking about this later.” Cahiral murmurs to Rorie, allowing herself to be grabbed by the nearest soldier.

She grimaces when her arm is wrenched behind her, Rorie hauled to his feet in one instant then shoved to his knees the next, seething at the impact on stone.

“Chancellor Roderick!” Leliana protests, rushing to join the growing crowd, leaving Cassandra's counsel “They are-”

“I know who they are.” The man dressed head to toe in chantry robes snaps, “They're criminals! What are they doing here? Unbound no less! Guards, shackle them!”

“Disregard that.” Cassandra stops the guards with a gesture, the soldiers hesitating, confused as to whose orders to follow.

“This is exciting.” Cahiral grimaces when she's dropped to her knees with a violent shove from the woman behind her, pleased when Cassandra's glare makes her captor back off.

“Don't antagonize them” Rorie hisses, rolling his eyes when she just grins at him.

The man, Roderick, flinches away from Cassandra like she's a ravenous flame, “Seeker! I order you to take these two back to Val Royeaux! They deserve nothing less than the noose!” He's livid, eyes sharp and voice bringing the attention of the entire camp to this debacle.

“They will face trial!” Cassandra argues, “But only after they have helped us seal the breach and we gather more evidence.”

“Evidence!” Roderick gasps, appalled, and gestures wildly at the breach, “Is that not evidence enough?! Those marks on their hands aren't just _coincidence_ , Seeker!”

“Enough!” Leliana lowers an icy look at Chancellor Roderick, the man scowling at her, but he doesn't protest. Rorie's been on that side of the red-head's ire, he doesn't envy the man, though he certainly doesn't pity him.

“Let them up.” Leliana nods to the guards looming over them, now quick to respond, helping the two elves back to their feet before retreating, not wishing to risk the left hand of the divine's venomous attention.

“Chancellor Roderick, we need these two to help seal the breach. Cassandra has seen what the marks can do. They are our only weapon against the rifts.” she pleads their case, “Tomorrow we-”

“Tomorrow? I want these criminals back down the mountain and imprisoned tonight! Bringing them here was futile, our position wanes with every hour, soon we will need to call a retreat.”

“Chancellor-!” Cassandra begins, her tone rumbling in a snarl, but she's cut off with a firm grip on her arm from Leliana.

The cloaked woman shakes her head solemnly, Cassandra hesitating, searching Leliana for some kind of hint to her thinking, before giving a huff and backing off, a displeased scowl settling on her lips.

Rorie could feel Cahiral tense beside him, and he begins searching for a way out should things go further south than they already had.

But with both sides of the bridge sealed and too many soldiers between them and the exits, the only other option was over the wall to certain death. Not much of an option at all.

“Very well, Chancellor, but the valley grows dark and it would be dangerous to send them back down the mountain with a squadron we need here.” Leliana reasons, the man considering her words before looking at the two elves in custody.

He doesn't seem to buy it until she implores further, “We wish Justinia's murderers to be brought to justice, not killed in the wilderness with innocent soldiers. Please reconsider.”

And he does, surprisingly enough.

“Very well, you have your repose until morning… under one condition.” He tilts his head to Rorie and Cahiral, “Those two are bound through the night.”

“What-” Cahiral jerks back in surprise, Rorie's own protest close behind.

“No-!”

“Agreed.” Leliana concedes for them, not even batting an eye when they're pulled around roughly, leather cord wrapped tightly around their wrists with brutal efficiency and confiscating their weapons.

The only saving grace is that their arms aren't bound behind them.

Cassandra dismisses the guards when they finish, commending a job well done though the praise in her voice doesn't reach her eyes, instead looking disappointed and put out.

Like she wants to apologize.

She doesn't, instead leading them down the eastern wall while Leliana and Roderick talk heatedly, the dismissal of their prisoners allowing the rest of the camp to ease back into its lulling exhaustion.

She takes them to a pair of bedrolls next to a warm brazier, the gentle crackle of feasting fire already beckoning them to sleep, to rest.

“You will have a guard on you during the night.” She explains.

She helps them both down, off balance by the bindings digging into their wrists—she has the grace to loosen them just a bit, to stop skin from being rubbed raw over night or become infected.

On the other hand, she kneels before each of them and ties her own rawhide cord to their ankles, loose enough for movement, but not enough to make a single full stride.

Rorie scowls but doesn't protest, unlike Cahiral.

“Oh come now Cassie, would I run from you?” Cahiral purrs, Cassandra looking scandalized for a split second before rolling her eyes, “I will have a mender look at your nose. Both of you get some rest, you will have a long day ahead of you.”

She hesitates, before clenching her jaw and nodding, standing up to issue her orders among the camp.

A mender with no magical talent whatsoever comes by within a few minutes, tending to Cahiral's nose, reporting that it wasn't broken, and cleaned off the blood and dirt from the day of fighting.

A soldier hovered nearby, Cassandra's guard detail on them, a too young kid in armor, nervous and glaring at his charges.

Cahiral utters her thanks to the mender as he leaves, turning her silvered gaze on Rorie, “ _Lethallin_ ” and she waits.

He frowns, feeling his face grow warm, and its not the proximity of the fire bubbling in its brazier.

When he doesn't immediately reply to her challenge she sniffs and turns away, awkwardly shifting into the bedroll with bound wrists and ankles, her back turned to him.

He watches her, waiting, she's played this game before, sometimes she wins, sometimes he does.

He doesn't feel like winning this though.

“ _Lethallan, sathan_ ” he whispers hoarsely. He doubts their guard understands a word he's saying, but… he doesn't want a private conversation to attract Cassandra's ire if she were to demand a translation from him.

Cahiral tilts her head upwards, an indicator that she's listening, but not conceding.

He huffs impatiently, “ _Ir abelas, sathan, Cahiral._ ”

A long silence settles heavily on his shoulders, creeping into his resolve until finally, Cahiral heaves a heavy sigh.

She turns around to face him, propping herself up on her elbow, watching him long enough that he shifts uncomfortably under her stare.

“Rorie...” she starts, sucking in a fortifying breath, “ _Ma... Isa'ma'lin_.” she throws her earnestness in those words, eyes fierce, the same way she was when defending the clan against Solas.

She's not just saying brother.

“ _Asa'ma'lin_ ” he replies in sincerity, eager to get his meaning across.

Your blood is my blood.

Not just brother, not just sister.

“Then you _know_ I couldn't just—of course I had to follow you.” Cahiral sits up, reaching across the gap between them, hesitating when she sees their guard watching them curiously.

He wished they were far away from this place, just them, just honesty. But they're not. They're forever watched, monitored, and denied fundamental privacy.

He reaches over and takes her hand anyway, giving her a squeeze for comfort, “I know.” because truly, he did.

Some part of him knew she'd chase after him, leave home, crossing the waking sea and scaling the frostback mountains. Most of him hoped she wouldn't.

She smiles at him, a little sad, a lot tired, “ _Hamin_ ” she lets go, “ _Mahvir'ghilas._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Lethallan, hamin.”  
> "Lethallan, relax"
> 
> “Lasa ghilan”  
> “Good luck”
> 
> “Lethallan, sathan”  
> “Lethallan, please”
> 
> “Ir abelas, sathan, Cahiral.”  
> “I'm sorry, please, Cahiral”
> 
> “-Isa'ma'lin.”  
> “His blood is my blood”
> 
> “Asa'ma'lin”  
> “Her blood is my blood”
> 
> “Hamin”  
> “Rest”
> 
> “Mahvir'ghilas.”  
> “Tomorrow, we run”


	4. Terror incarnate

**IV.**

A sharp kick to the shin jolts him awake, pulled so quick from the dreaming fade that it lingers in the waking world—until he remembers the breach, fade incarnate poisoning the world. He wasn't dreaming.

The forward camp was a rush of movement, soldiers arming themselves, running to the far side of the bridge where their party had first arrived.

“Keep those gates barred!” He could hear Cassandra's voice clear over the panic. Then he sees the sealed doors burst at the seams with a loud crack, a collective yelp coming from the soldiers holding them shut. Green light seeped through the cracks, the sputtering of a rift calling to the mark in his hand, the chortle of demons calling to his magic.

The breach above snapped with lightning, sending meteors of flame down upon them, soldiers screaming when one smashes into the bridge, engulfing supplies in the wicked green flames before—he's tackled to the ground when the supplies erupt.

His body twists violently with the force of Cahiral throwing herself at him, and he seethes, swearing under his breath.

“Morning.” Cahiral grimaces, hoisting herself back up now that the worst of the explosion is over.

It’s taken a chunk out of the bridge, a wide gaping hole where once there was solid stone. The piece of wall now gone allows a powerful wind to pound into the camp, sweeping unsteady soldiers off their feet, dizzy from the force of the explosion.

“What's going on?” He asks, looking around wildly when he hears the taunt of a demon. But there aren’t any hovering nearby.

“Rift opened up on the other side of the gates, I think.” Cahiral explains, testing the bindings on her wrists, and grins when she finds them wanting.

She pulls against them, growling under her breath as they sear against her skin then _snap_ , her wrists are free. Rorie huffs at her, she just sticks her tongue out at him before working on her ankles.

She finishes when the front gates burst again, something large and powerful on the other side trying to get through. Some of the soldiers are thrown back, hitting the ground harshly, only a few get back up.

“Hold fast!” Cassandra bellows, he can't see her in the fray, likely in the center of the force pushing the doors back before whatever it is on the other side gets through.

Cahiral frees his ankles and wrists with a dagger from a toppled over weapons rack and helps him up, only to yank him back down when a burst of fire screams over their heads, another punishment from the breach.

Cahiral is muttering something viciously under her breath, invoking Mythal's name for protection and Andruil's for a good hunt.

“We need-” he's drowned out by a piercing scream, slapping his hands over his ears. Bright claws pierce through the cracks in the gates, too long, like razors, and shimmering like mirrored glass.

Cahiral is shoving him away, her eyes wide and fierce, “In the tent, that's where Leliana took your staff… I think… don't give me that look I'm pretty sure it’s there—go!”

“What do you think you're doing?” he grabs her arm before she can run to join Cassandra and her men.

“Improvising!” Cahiral's grin is wild, wriggling out of his grip and running to aid the struggle.

He sees her stoop to grab a discarded mace, not one of her most practiced weapons, but he'd seen her defend herself with less before.

So he's not worried. That's what he keeps telling himself.

He slips past distracted soldiers, picking his way through the chaos towards the singular tent nestled near the opposite end of the camp.

He's not stopped, barely even noticed, the tension here about ready to snap as men and women prepare to fight. When their friends fall at the gates, they'll be the last of the camp, and Cassandra's forces will lose their only foothold close enough to the temple to be of any use.

He slips into the tent without so much as a sideways glance from the soldiers, turning to release his held breath, only to come face to face with the Chancellor.

The very one convinced of his and Cahiral's guilt.

“You!” the man advances on him once Rorie is recognized, rage twisting his features, “You're supposed to be in chains!” Rorie doesn't have time for this.

And there's his staff, Cahiral's great sword, resting on an ornate trunk at the foot of a cot.

He pushes past Roderick, reaching for the staff only for a hand to grab his wrist, twisting harshly. He gasps and wrenches away, the mark flaring brightly.

“That mark-” Roderick growls, stumbling back as the eerie green glow flashes and illuminates the small space, Rorie's heart spiking when Leliana appears from the shadows.

How the woman did that he had no idea. He didn't remember the tent opening to allow another inside.

She moved silent as snow, at any one moment she could be anywhere, and instead of out there aiding the quarrel, she's here.

“We need your mark. The gates are crumbling, Cassandra says you can close the rift.”

“Leliana!” Roderick gasps, appalled, “This man is a criminal.”

“Yes, perhaps he is” she quips, icy eyes landing on him and turning the air cold, “but he's also one of our only chances of saving this camp. Please Roderick, give him the staff.”

He looks conflicted, glancing between Rorie and Leliana, jaw clenched tight in defiance. But then his eyes land on the still murmuring mark engrained in Rorie's palm, and he sighs.

“Very well. On your head be the consequences, Nightingale.” Rorie surges forward, snatching up the staff, following Leliana out on a whirl of movement—she refuses to look at him.

The wind buffets against him the moment he escapes the stuffed warmth of the tent, skin going cold but the worry in his veins burns hot.

“Leliana, Cahiral's mark will close the rift-”

Leliana glances at him and looks away again, lips pursed thin.

Panic wraps around his throat, squeezing his lungs, making him freeze mid-step, “Where is she?”

“She's fine.” that wasn't an answer. He flashes back to the very same words back in the cells beneath the chantry, Cahiral's screams still ringing in his ears.

Leliana turns back to look at him, her eyes pleading with him, “She won't be soon.”

He bolts past her, riding a burst of magic launching him forward. One moment he's beside Leliana, the next, in a flurry of sound like the rush of wings, he's halfway down the bridge, skidding to a halt when the gates shatter open with a boom.

A crooked demon stumbles inside, walking on stilt like legs, long and studded in the thorns of roses. A curved spine cradles a sunken stomach, arms too long with fingers like sharpened points of glass. The demon's jaw rests on its collar bone, revealing rotten teeth and a gaping maw, too many eyes in its skull flickering around the scene looking for prey.

And there's Cahiral, a new scrape on her cheek, armor dusted in splinters, mace gripped firmly in both hands and he can see it from here.

The fear.

The same that froze her still in front of the rage demon, her eyes widening and the color draining from her face now that she's looking into the gaze of Terror itself.

The demon creeps forward, sucking in air in big heaving breaths, lunging at the elf to scream in her face. He knows from experience that terror demons play with their food.

Except when its scream curdles and dies, Cahiral is baring her teeth, and she sucks in a deep breath and screams right back, a righteous pitched snarl—and smashes the demon in the skull with her mace.

It collapses to the side in its surprise, scrabbling against the bridge wall, gasping dusty breaths, screeching like a wounded animal.

“ _Ma emma harel!_ ” Cahiral whips her mace around, wielding it like a bat as she strikes the demon’s bony leg, the demon screaming now in pain when its limb splinters like wood.

The demon lashes out, swiping with its tail and knocks Cahiral’s feet out from under her. She drops to the ground, head hitting the stone in a daze.

Rorie lurches forward in a panic when Terror pulls itself up, limping and wounded, but still powerful in its own right. It hovers over Cahiral, breathing hard, drool shining its rotten teeth and ragged heaving breath wheezing with cobwebs in its lungs.

It raises its arm to strike and he’s too slow, reaching with his magic and gasping the only spell he knows can reach her. A blue blanket of magic drops over her, the barrier holding fast when the demon’s claws aiming for her stomach bounce right off and slide deep into the stone of the bridge.

It shrieks when it jerks back and can’t get free, looking up wildly when Cassandra staggers up in her fellow warrior’s defense. She looks bruised and out of breath, ash and blood on her cheek, her shield missing.

She raises her sword over her head, shouting as she brings it down, “Maker take you!” and slices through the demon’s spine, its scream cut short as its head falls.

Before its skull can even hit the ground the whole construct shudders and bursts into ash, fluttering to the ground as if a demon had never been.

“Close the rift.” Rorie jumps when Leliana is suddenly beside him, pressing bruising fingerprints in his arm as she pushes him forward, to the gurgling rift blown wide open in front of the gates knocked off their hinges.

“Use the mark!” Solas shouts from somewhere behind him and he grimaces, gritting his teeth as the mark burns in his palm like ice.

Cassandra is looking up at him in earnest, kneeling besides a still dazed Cahiral. Her mark is fluttering too, grasping against the stone as if attempting to rouse her.

He remembers how Solas held her arm up to the rift so he mimics the memory, lifting his hand and the reaction is almost instant.

The mark coils in his hand and once he pushes it out, like he would his magic, it fractures, grappling through the air and plunging into the rift. He gasps, seething as the pain surges up his arm, his feet dragging forward, skidding on slick stone.

The power beats inside his ears and all he hears is the angry murmurs of demons on the other side, a clammy hand traipsing up his chest to press against his throat, fingers closing in—and then with a snap it’s all gone.

The rift claps shut, whispers lingering on the wind, the light from the rift now gone and plunging the camp into darkness. Young dawn light barely brightens the sky, the torches blown out by the struggle, shock permeating the ensuing silence as the soldiers still alive slowly recover from what they’d just seen.

“Feels like your bones trying to run away from you, doesn’t it?” He jumps at the sound of Cahiral’s groggy voice.

She’s sitting up with Cassandra’s aid, rubbing the back of her head and smiling weakly up at him.

She holds her hand up to him in a silent request, Cassandra backing away as Rorie takes her arm, holding her elbow firm in his other hand to hoist her to her feet.

“ _Ma serannas, lethallin_ ” Cahiral murmurs, woozy on her feet for a moment, stilled by Rorie’s hands on her shoulders.

“Are you alright?” He asks low, eyes flickering to where Cassandra is returning to her soldiers, counting the dead and wounded, Solas crouched beside a soldier and bandaging him up.

Leliana is watching them. His eyes meet hers and she doesn’t look away.

“M’fine” Cahiral says, flexing her marked hand to shake out the pain, “Just some bruises.” She looks up to him, seeing his distracted gaze and looks back to see the Lady Nightingale.

“She has words for you.” Cahiral observes.

“I have words for her.” Rorie retorts sharply, pulled from Leliana when Cahiral pats his arm.

“Don’t get us locked up again.” She says, eyes glinting in humor, before she gestures to the cut on her cheek and likely other unseen wounds, “I’ll go get patched up.”

She leaves to head to where other wounded lean against the bridge wall, getting patched up by Solas and the non-magic mender, Varric greeting her in passing, saying something about an elven warrior he knew that she reminds him of.

He watches her go, turning away to see that Leliana is making her own headway to him, hands folded neatly behind her back.

“Your mark sealed the rift, just as Cassandra said.” She observes once she stops in front of him, her expression cool and collected.

She’s calculating him, as she has been since he woke up in that cell back in Haven. He’s not sure if she’s just trying to figure him and Cahiral out, if she’s trying to prove their guilt or innocence, or merely watching them like an enigma.

Either way, she’s twisted the truth twice too many times.

“Cahiral was fine when I arrived.” He states, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning on his leg and watching her expectantly.

“She wouldn’t have been.” Leliana replies smoothly, rebuffing his attempts.

Cahiral hadn’t been in immediate danger when he ran to get to her, she hadn’t been in danger until the demon knocked her flat, and by then Cassandra had recovered and leaped to Cahiral’s defense.

“She _was_ fine.” He insists, seeing Leliana’s eyes flash and she purses her lips, jaw clenching just the slightest and she looks like she’s about to argue, to defend her manipulation.

But then she softens, letting her shoulders drop, and she sighs, “We needed to test your mark as well, to know if yours is as potent as your sister’s.”

He snorts, shaking his head, “You’re not bolstering my trust in you.”

“You’ll forgive me if I treat you with suspicion.” She replies, pauses, and tilts her head in concession, “But you are right. You and your sister have helped us and… _intend_ to continue helping us, to seal the breach, and I have met you both with malice. _Ir abelas_.” He blinks at her, surprised, and she gives him a knowing smirk, bowing her head and taking her leave of him with little more than the swish of chain mail.

He stands there for a moment, gripping his staff tight as he thinks. He looks up towards the breach, quieter now, simmering in its forever swirling vortex, and rumbling in latent thunder.

It needed to go. It’d gotten bigger overnight, grasping for every inch, devouring the sky above the shattered temple. It’d be a slow process, but if it continued, as Cassandra said, it would certainly grow to swallow the world.

Him and Cahiral would have to go up there and do what they could, if anything more than to protect themselves and protect home—but after that, he wanted to be leagues away from Haven, on a boat to the Free Marches where they can finally go home and get the lecture of their lives from _Mamae_ and Keeper.

How they’d make their escape, however, he didn’t know.

He makes his way over to Cahiral who is now sitting on the same upturned crate from last night. Her face is cleaned of blood, a patch on her cheek covering the small wound. She turns to him when she hears him coming, blinking tiredly at him—there are still rawhide ropes wrapped around her wrists, limp from where she’d snapped them clean.

He sits beside her, taking her hand to unwind the rawhide and discard it before repeating on her other wrist.

“She’s tricky.” Cahiral observes, watching Leliana tiredly.

He hums his agreement, leaning against the box beside her waiting for… something.

A soldier comes by with field rations, handing out stale bread and hard cheese, her gratitude for Cahiral’s fighting and Rorie’s action against the rift evident in her shining eyes as she gives them both a serving.

And just like that they sit in silence, watching the sun rise over the mountains, painting the sky a delicate blue.

And for a minute, its nice.

Of course, the peace is interrupted by arguing.

“It is _morning_ , Seeker! Yet I do not see those two bound and on their way to the capital!” Roderick’s volume garners him a glare from weary soldiers around them, scowling at the chancellor just as deep as Cassandra is, sporting a blooming bruise on her jaw from the fight.

“You order _me_ -!”

Leliana is quick to get in before Cassandra hurtles a tactless insult at the man.

“Chancellor, you saw what happened. His mark sealed the rift, surely you must see that they’re our only weapon against the breach.” She implores, “If they had not been here then we would have lost this camp.”

Roderick stops, scowl darkening as he settles on Rorie and Cahiral. He doesn’t argue that fact, but neither does he concede to it.

“We can stop this before it truly begins.” Cassandra interjects after a moment of baited breath. She is all earnest sincerity, both pleading and commanding.

“How?” Roderick’s voice breaks, tired, hopeless, “We’ve lost too many here for you to make it to the temple in one piece.”

Cassandra hesitates, looking back over her broken soldiers. There’s honest sorrow in her eyes, grief for the lost. Even if their wounded marched with the able they wouldn’t make up for their dwindling numbers.

“There is another route. Safer.” Leliana supplies, “Cullen still has men fighting at the front. They are numbered enough to provide a distraction while we take the mountain pass.”

Cassandra snorts, planting her hands on her hips, one cradling the pommel of her sword.

“We lost contact with those scouts hours ago, we have no idea what could be lying in wait—it’s too risky, Leliana!”

“And charging with half a company isn’t?”

Cassandra scowls but doesn’t argue.

There’s a tense moment of everyone considering the options, then all eyes turn to the two elves in question.

“Wait—what?” Cahiral stammers, realization hitting her when even Roderick looks to them for answers.

“You want _us_ to decide?” She asks, looking up at Rorie who is frowning in thought.

Charging the temple would be the fastest route, easiest to the temple plus or minus the threat of facing a number of demons.

The Mountain pass would give them time, and a vantage point over the land, something useful in an escape attempt.

He looks over at her, “Mountain pass?” he asks.

She considers only for a moment, “I want to find those soldiers… if we can help them…” she trails off, sucking in a breath, “Mountain pass.”

“Well that was easy.” Varric murmurs off to the side, his hands tucked into his jacket, bitter against the frigid wilderness.

Cassandra seems a little put out but honors their decision, “Leliana, we will take your path. Gather everyone left in the valley, we will meet you at the temple.”

Leliana nods, clasping Cassandra’s arm, “Maker protect you.” She offers, Cassandra mirroring her actions by clasping the Nightingale’s forearm “And you.”

“Up and at em’.” Cahiral hoists herself to her feet, stretching her arms above her head until her shoulders crack, sighing in satisfaction.

“I’ll go get a sword. Don’t wait up.” She nudges Rorie's shoulder affectionately before jogging after Cassandra, meeting up with the woman and saying something that he can tell makes the Seeker’s ears go pink.

“You two are close.” He has to stop his body from stiffening in surprise, stomping down any reaction to the smooth voice that appears beside him.

Solas observes him quietly for a moment, curious, yesterday’s transgressions forgotten for the moment.

“Of course.” Rorie replies tersely, not offering any ground to further conversation.

Solas makes it anyway.

“If I may theorize? Your marks… they react to your emotional state, have you noticed your mark reacting to that of your sister’s?”

Rorie hesitates, breathing out slowly as he remembers the anger Cahiral had felt while arguing with Solas. But he’d also been angry, in his own way. And yet… there was something there, drawing him towards her, a compulsive need to react with her.

But any notion of it being the mark’s doing is skewed by the very fact that he’d come to her defense regardless.

“Perhaps.” He replies, “There is more… pull… when I was closing the rift, towards her or towards the rift itself, I’m not sure.”

Solas seems to consider this, calculating inside his head and marking observations down for later.

“Thank you.” He admits quietly and steps away to join Varric waiting by the still intact gate.

“Solas,” Rorie calls before he can truly stop himself, pausing when the other elf turns back to him expectantly. Rorie pauses, forming the question in his head, “the marks…can they be stopped?”

“In theory…” Solas begins, breathing out an impatient sigh and rubbing the back of his neck, “I believe that once the breach is sealed, both your marks will stop growing. Or, at the very least, grow at an extremely decelerated rate. I am afraid that, most likely, they are irreversible.”

Rorie chews the inside of his cheek in contemplation, “I… thank you, Solas.”

“Of course.” The elf gives him a sympathetic look before turning away and continuing down his intended path.

Rorie steels himself for a moment, letting himself breathe deep, then head down the way to join the others gathering at the gate.

Cassandra is talking to the small party when he arrives, acknowledging him with a nod.

“The path we're taking follows the western ridge. It is narrow and the snow, deep, we'll need to tread carefully. The area has a risk of avalanche and since we don't know what is waiting for us, be on the look out for ambush.”

“Sounds cheery.” Cahiral mutters in an aside, Varric stifling a snort that gets them both a heated glower from the Seeker.

“The mine is located in an escarpment, we'll need to climb to get there but, with luck, the old ladders miners used will still be there. The mine should take us through the mountain and put us behind the enemy's front line, right at the entrance to the temple.” Cassandra finishes, pausing for a moment, something that Varric picks up on quickly.

“I sense a 'but' coming.” He says, getting a peeved look from her, one of many and its barely past sunrise.

“ _But-_ ” Cassandra says pointedly, “We don't know what is up there. We may face a cave in or worse that will force us to turn back. And if there are manners of demons up there we will need to be prepared.” She explains, wringing her fingers in nervous habit, looking at Rorie and Cahiral expectantly.

When neither of them say anything she deflates and turns away, signaling to the guards to open the gate.

“Very well. Stay close.”

Beyond the creaking gates they can almost see the temple and where the plunging column of twisting green chaos stretches between earth and sky. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles, the searing light of the breach drowning what would've been dawn's soothing wakefulness.

But then Cassandra takes them down an opposite path, untrodden except for a medley of frozen over footprints—those of their missing scouts.

There have yet to be any signs of danger, besides the growing chasm on their left and steepening cliff to their right. Nothing yet that would explain how the scouts vanished.

Cahiral and Rorie fall to the rear of the group, a watchful eye on them from their resident dwarf, something Cahiral doesn't seem to mind as she’s digging through her satchel. Cassandra isn’t looking when Cahiral hands over a number of health and mana potions to Rorie, tapping the side of her cheek. Her way of silently asking for thanks, a kiss on the cheek.

He doesn't give her one, instead giving her a roll of his eyes and a hushed but scandalized “ _Lethallan!_ ”

He can't help but smile.

“You're welcome.” She beams at him ruffling her own hair and covering a yawn as they tromp along the mountain side, the glint of her sword catching the sun behind them.

He also sees that on top of the potions she’s commandeered a warhorn now lashed to her hip. Whether that was with Cassandra’s blessing or not…

“Tell me” Cahiral says as she picks her way through the shallow snow, “Is all that contemplating you’re doing coming up with anything we can use?”

“No…” he huffs, “not yet.” But soon, he hopes.

She doesn't say more on the topic for fear of Cassandra hearing them. All it would take would be a westward blowing wind to carry their words to her.

As the path narrows they slow down, panning out into a single file line led by Cassandra, stomping down and shoving through increasingly deeper snow.

Mostly for Varric’s benefit, the snow going up to his waist at this rate.

“You think the view will help?” Cahiral asks quietly over her shoulder, only sparing a glance back at him then returning to the work of her footing. No use in plummeting to her death just yet.

He opens his mouth to reply, sucking in a sharp breath when she stops abruptly, hissing out his protest when he nearly runs into her.

They've just rounded a corner of vivid blue granite, dipping back into the shadows as neither the rising sun nor the expansive breach have spread so far to swallow this side of the mountain.

In front of them is an escarpment traveling sharply up. A series of stone terraces stagger the way up, old stones worn by wind and weather but still holding fast. It helps that each terrace is reinforced with thick wood beams, relatively young ladders drilled into the walls at several intervals.

They would never fall so long as the terraces stood.

A system of old rusted pulleys lay misused and abandoned, creaking in the wind, rope fraying and metal tarnished by time.

Cassandra stops at the base of the first ladder, turning to Varric and Solas, giving a terse order hidden beneath the cry of wind through the pass.

And then she starts the climb, each rung holding her weight and that of her armor with the smallest creaks of protest.

She’s up the first ladder when she turns around and beckons Solas up, sure that the way is safe. Only once he’s halfway up does Varric turn to the two dalish, gesturing with his head to the ladder.

“Seeker’s orders.” And they both frown.

“M'lady Seeker, still so suspicious!” Cahiral mocks, holding a hand over her heart, wounded.

Varric laughs, shaking his head, “You'll get used to her.”

“Fantastic.” Rorie mumbles, stepping forward and giving the ladder a wary look. He tests the first few rungs of the ladder, cold to the touch, brittle but holding, creaking as he pulls himself up.

The climb is simple enough, he's not quite used to climbing even higher in thin air, his lungs starting to burn for a good dose of air. Except he nearly falls off when he hears Varric below him.

“I see everything, you know.” The dwarf says in a casual, knowing tone to Cahiral. Rorie hesitates on the ladder, glancing down to Cahiral, now considering the dwarf.

She looks up to see Rorie begrudgingly continue up the ladder, accepting Solas’ arm up while Cassandra has already started on the second terrace. He looks back down on her and Varric, his face pinched in worry though with the wind growing stronger the further up they go, he can't hear a word they're saying.

“Master Tethras.” Cahiral hums and looks back down to the roguish dwarf, “You see everything, but you don’t tell everything, do you?”

And the dwarf knows he likes her.

“A story teller doesn’t tell all his secrets in the first act.” He confirms, giving her a sarcastically flourished bow and she laughs, heading up the ladder, Varric close behind.

“We’re okay.” Cahiral reports to a pensive looking Rorie, Solas halfway up the next ladder and out of earshot.

“We haven’t got anything to tell anyway.” Rorie replies defensively.

“That’s what the view is for.”

“And the scouts?” He asks, seeing her eyes flicker in what he knows to be worry.

“Hope for the best?” She smiles weakly and passes him, starting up the next ladder before Cassandra can ask what is holding them up.

He has to turn away when he sees Varric giving him an approving look, focusing instead on his breathing.

The second ladder also passes with little consequence except for his breathlessness—and by the looks of it they still have two more ladders to go.

“Who would build a mine like this?” He asks in a frustrated puff of breath, helping Varric up over the last stretch of the third ladder, stopping to rest a bit.

“Humans.” Varric says without missing a beat, “I'm sure there's an easier access point on the other side, these pulleys would've likely been used more for lowering the mined goods than taking up any supplies.” he explains, brushing off the snow from his duster, clapping his hands together and eying the final ladder.

Its shorter than the others, thank the creators.

Cahiral is there at the top to pull Rorie and Varric up, her cheeks red with the effort of it all.

“Remind me” she breathes, “To do more practice in mountain air.” she sucks in a breath, so used to the abundance of air in the lowlands, back home where forests and meadows flourished.

Cassandra somehow seems unaffected, Solas a close second, though they're both patient to let the other three catch their breath, taking in the view as they do.

To the east is the breach in all its mighty, rumbling untapped potential. It is quiet for now, an episode of flying meteors and shooting pain long overdue.

Not that she was particularly complaining, the mark on her left hand quiet for the longest time yet. She hopes it isn't an ill omen though.

The mountains are a harsh environment, no easy terrain, but in an escape attempt it would help them more than hinder. Two elves would make it through the mountains faster than a troop of armor clad humans.

Way to the south is Haven, small and cradled in the arms of the mountain range and the only real sign of civilization for miles around.

Again, not necessarily a problem for two _dalish_ elves. They've subsisted on less for longer.

And Cahiral had managed to horde some field rations in her satchel, for future use.

She wants to ask what Rorie sees as well, if he's seeing a path she's overlooking, compare notes and find the best way out—as soon as they find Leliana's missing scouts and put a stop to the breach.

It sounds easy when she puts it on paper, but in truth… she looks up at the currently sated tear in the sky.

It was one thing to close a rift, the one she'd closed before was small in comparison and yet the pain was tremendous. Bones shattered, teeth ground together, hot iron manacles searing her flesh—then a snap and its all gone, never existed.

If that was the pain in closing a rift… the breach was another matter entirely.

“We'll make it home.” She starts, looking at Rorie in surprise. His face is schooled, eyes flicking over the landscape, cataloging as she'd done, before glancing over at her, “ _Dir'vhen'an.”_

The promise itself doesn't mean much without a plan, but she feels warmed by his words.

“That's awfully optimistic of you.”

“Yes and whose influence is that?” Rorie's eyes flash over to her, his tone indignant, but he smiles.

“Seeker is getting impatient.” Varric notes, the woman in question watching them with hands planted on her hips expectantly.

Solas is investigating the entrance into the mine, down a catwalk of wood slats, certain death fenced off by a shoddy balustrade before a large archway delving into the mountain.

It gapes like a mouth, luckily, no teeth ring its sides. Otherwise its very human in architecture, a small set of steps leading down.

Peering inside they can see the flicker of torches, gently lighting the damp caves. The fire reveals heavy cedar beams and archways, thick to support the ceiling. The flooring is surprising though, Cahiral and Rorie had expected rough ground polished by water and weight. Instead, masonry makes the ground smooth, stairs down into a storage area, and cornerstones telling of chantry design work.

“Our scouts have been here.” Cassandra's voice echoes loudly, wincing at her own volume, she drops her voice to but a pin drop, “Look here.” she smooths over a cedar plank, just beneath a sputtering torch. There, marked in chalk, is the symbol of a raven—one of Nightingale's people.

“So we know they made it this far.” Varric's voice is tinged with hope, giving his excitement away at finding the scouts alive and well.

“Yes but that is all we know.” Cassandra says, giving the dwarf a withering look.

“For all we know this is where their mission ended.”

“I don't see signs of battle.” Cahiral says, though the shadows are thick and make her throat squeeze, she sees no blood, no bodies, and no discarded weapons.

Then she takes in a deep breath and coughs, shoving her nose into the crook of her elbow.

“By _Fen'harel's_ breath!” She swears, not seeing the dirty look Solas casts her, “It does smell like Shade though.”

“Shade? It doesn't-” Rorie starts—he doesn't smell it.

“I wasn't aware you were the one up in the thick of all that demon business.” Cahiral retorts, flicking the blade of her great sword so that it rings.

Rorie scowls at her, “Point taken.”

“What do shades smell like?” Solas asks curiously, being another mage, he's not experienced in the thick of fighting either.

Cassandra crinkles her nose in disgust, “Rotten meat mostly.”

“And briny water.” Cahiral supplies, and there's an approving nod from Cassandra.

“Kirkwall was covered in them.” Varric coughs, beating his exposed chest, “I always thought they smelled like smoke.”

“We can argue the semantics of demon aroma later.” Cassandra interjects, drawing her sword with a metallic song, “We know they're here but not their numbers, everyone, be on your guard.”

“Yes _ma'am_ ” Cahiral says with a saucy smirk and Cassandra stifles a groan, a harsh “ _For the love of the Maker_ ” under her breath.

“You just can't resist.” Rorie murmurs to Cahiral who only makes a pleased hum in her throat as she passes him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

She goes to join Cassandra at the front, drawing her sword, the two warriors falling into step with each other, waiting for the ambush surely to come.

Rorie grabs for his staff slung over his shoulder, Solas' own weapon beside him glowing in the glass orb at the top, eliminating the heavy shadows down the hallway as they pass.

For the most part, its quiet. There is the occasional clatter, a pebble falling, the drip of water from stalactites clinging to the ceiling. The cave breaths gusts of frozen wind, cavern walls flickering and giving the illusion of heaving sides.

The hall opens up in a barrel vault of a cavern. They walk on a mezzanine overlooking a placid pool of black water. Its barely a nook to the expansive cavern, blue icicles treacherously sharp, clear like glass and makes Rorie glad they're under a cave ceiling supported by the cedar beams than beneath those death traps.

Cahiral is tempted to whistle, just to try out the echo.

The torches lining the walls here are lit as well, another brazier down the line marked with Nightingale's chalk. But there's still no sign of a struggle, in fact, barely any signs of life.

The scouts came through here, didn't stop, didn't make camp, and weren't attacked. If it weren't for the trail markers and torches she'd think they'd never have come this way.

“Look ahead.” Solas' voice is a tepid whisper, gesturing with his staff towards a wide stairwell leading up.

Flickering shadows linger, the torchlight on the landing moves, as if someone is holding a torch and walking around in circles, searching, or pacing. Waiting for rescuers maybe?

“Our scouts?” Varric inquires, readying his crossbow.

“Perhaps” Cassandra whispers, half crouched as she ascends the stairs slowly, shield forward, Cahiral behind her with sword at the ready.

The landing has a few supplies scattered around, an abandoned bedroll, water skin, a makeshift camp fire in the center still smoking with glowing embers, and a rage demon looking right at them.

“ _Fenhedis lasa_ ” Rorie bites, shoving away the lightning spell he'd prepared on his tongue and reaching instead for an icy breath.

Cahiral is already charging, letting loose a feral cry as she swings her sword around, bouncing off the stone floor when she misses. Rage moves like wax, easing around the attack with such a fluid motion, her attack barely grazing the demon when it slips backwards out of reach.

Instead of attacking again she spins out of the way for Cassandra's charge to take the demon in the chest, her shield between her and the searing heat of Rage. The demon bellows a throaty growl, shoving Cassandra off then letting loose a furious roar, fire flaring around its shoulders like a mantle and embers bursting out its skin.

That's when it happens.

Shades by the dozen drop down from the rafters, enveloped in shadow now leaping at the sight of prey. And the call of their master.

“Ambush!” Rorie shouts warning, casting his winter's breath in a furious snarl, freezing two shades in place before they can strangle Varric.

His crossbow bolts shatter the two demons on impact, dwarf fleeing back down the stairs to get some distance between him and his attackers, leaving behind him a trail of flickering traps.

Solas is grappling with his own shades, half casting spells and half desperate staff work, manipulating it like a polearm. Rorie focuses on one trying to weasel past the mages' defenses, sending a crackle of electricity plunging into its back and making it shriek.

It doesn't crumple, but spins around in fury, pauldrons on its shoulders and what looks like a human helmet studded with feathers framing its mouthless face.

It points at him, gurgling a sharp command and the shades going after Varric switch their target.

“ _Venavis_ ” Rorie backs away, sweat sliding cold down his neck, keeping watch on the three enemies now converging on him that he doesn't notice the shadow slinking behind him.

He yelps when a clammy hand grasps his ankles and yanks his legs out from under him. His staff skitters away from him, a blind spell thrown over his shoulder as he twists, clamoring away from his attacker into a corner.

His spell flew wild, missing its mark and plunging into a beam above, singing it black, sparks flying making the shade cringe but otherwise, useless.

_Shit_ there were too many, the smell of rancid meat flooding his lungs until he gags and hot breath glances off his skin as the shades slither across the slick flooring, chuckling in delight at their prey now vulnerable.

His heart hammers inside his chest, looking blindly for his staff but the walls are closing in and each second lost is vital. He prepares a spell that he hopes to buy him some time—until a blaring sound swallows his thoughts whole.

It echoes loud and brilliant, bouncing off the walls, shrill and wailing and drilling into his skull until he swears he feels blood trickle out of his ears beneath his hands clapped over them.

The demons are startled, disoriented for but a moment before discovering the source. He does too, heart skipping as his lungs stammer for breath, a pit dropping in his stomach. He watches in horror as every single demon turns to where Cahiral is standing, warhorn to her lips, letting it drop back to her hip now that she's gotten the entire mine's attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ma emma harel!”  
> “You should fear me!”
> 
> “Venavis”  
> “Fuck”


	5. Together or not at all

**V.**

“Shit shit shit _shit_ ” he hears Varric swearing, matching his internal monologue as shade after shade abandons its victim to aim for Cahiral, hissing and whispering promises of death on their bloody claws.

She grimaces, shifting her grip on her sword and slowly backing away from them, into a corner where she'll have no escape. Rorie is scrambling to his feet, looking desperately for his staff—but then everything explodes into a fiery hellscape.

Its Varric's traps, every one of them expiring in a flash, igniting the threadbare cloak of one shade, bursting it into flames and making it stumble screaming into its neighbor.

A number go up like that, flaring into panic and shrieking something horrid, distracting the rest of their brethren. Another number are sent sprawling with a burst of Solas' magic knit from the fabric of the fade itself, and in his fury, Rorie freezes the ones closest to him, staff or no staff, he still knows how to fight.

Cassandra shatters them with a bull rush, chunks of frozen shade clattering to the ground, dead and harmless, and Cahiral dispatches the last with a thrust of her blade, catching it by surprise when it'd spun around to witness the carnage.

It crumples into a pile of rotten cloth and she stumbles back, out of breath and limbs shaking from the adrenaline.

Rorie is at her side in an instant, brushing the hair from her eyes, searching for trauma.

“I'm _fine_ ” she insists with a puff of breath, returning her sword and leaning heavily on a supporting beam as she catches her breath. She almost brushes him off, second guessing when he fixes her with an agitated glare.

He scowls at her, satisfied with the reaction of her eyes to the sputtering torchlight, no internal damage then, and no major wounds that he sees externally.

“That was reckless.” He scolds only when he's sure she won't collapse on her feet, her recovery bringing color back to her cheeks, able to stand on her own again, “Always have to protect everyone, don't you?”

She snorts disdainfully, “You're one to talk. Besides, you were the one on the ground without a weapon, what else was I supposed to do?”

“Let me handle it.”

“Yes and how well do you think that'd turn out?”

“Do we have to do this now?” Rorie snaps, painfully aware of their companions giving them a wide berth as they argue.

Cahiral's jaw tightens, teeth grinding, indignation flaring in her eyes and her shoulders straighten. But then she hesitates, letting go of her breath in a heavy sigh, “No… no we don't.” she rubs the back of her neck, rolling her shoulders as she thinks. Its a pregnant pause before she finds the words to continue.

“I...it was reckless. But I didn't know how else to get them off you. It was a risk I had to take.” She finally admits, neither apologizing nor going back on her actions.

He doesn't say that it wasn't a risk _he_ was willing to take. And he knows that had their positions flipped, he'd have done the same thing.

And she'd have scolded him for it too.

“ _Eolasan._ ” he gives, taking a step back, breathing in shakily, “ _Ame shathe ma ane eth_ ” he insists quietly.

With how much has happened since waking up alone in that dark cell… its starting to feel dangerous to let certain things go unsaid.

Cahiral's face falls into a gentle smile, weary but true.

“ _Em tas_ ” she murmurs in return.

There's a hesitation there, the need to say more, be more… but there's no time.

“They made camp here when they were attacked.” Cassandra's voice breaks the tension, the two of them looking away. More would be said later.

More would be _argued_ later for certain.

Cassandra is knelt beside the campfire, hand hovering over the coals, lips pressed in a firm line, concern plastered across her face.

“Barely warm.” she looks at Varric worriedly, “If they still live they would have returned to camp once the coast was clear.”

Their archer remains silent, brow furrowing, shaking his head and turning away from the abandoned site.

“Let's find out then, shall we?” He tilts his head to another set of stairs leading further up. Cassandra sighs but doesn't say more, pulling herself to her feet, following him up the steps.

Rorie retrieves his staff from the shadowed corner it'd fled to, slinging it over his shoulder and silently following the dwarf and Seeker, leaving Solas and Cahiral to linger at the site of battle.

She breathes sharply through her nose, looking at Solas who hasn't moved to follow their companions. She allows the silence to settle for a moment, caught between flickering shadows.

Finally, she breaks the quiet herself, “You have words.” she states.

“I have many.” He replies smoothly, unruffled by her needling.

“Which ones want out right now?” She retorts.

“What do you and your brother intend to do after you’ve dealt with the breach?”

“You mean there’s an after?”

“A slim chance, yes.”

“I think you know.”

He watches her briefly, humor in his eyes before he tilts his head, conceding the point.

“Cassandra will take the ire. She and Leliana vouched for you two.”

“A vouch or two isn’t going to save my neck. Or Rorie’s.”

“True.” He hums, hands folded behind his back as he turns away to follow after their comrades at a leisurely pace.

“And you?” Cahiral inquires, stepping beside him, one ear out for enemies, another focused on the elf before her.

“What do I intend to do after this?” He asks, she nods.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, boots tapping gently on the wet stone floor, following the sputter of torches lining the mines, their companions ahead of them, stopping to look for the next trail marker.

Rorie is half turned towards them, watching carefully, brow raised when Cahiral meets his gaze.

“An apostate in the heart of chantry controlled land isn’t a place I’d like to be.” Solas finally admits.

“Like you, I’d like to be far from here once the breach has been dealt with.”

“And do you think we can do it? Seal the breach?”

There’s another hesitating pause, Solas’ thoughts flying through the reflection of his eyes.

“I have hope.”

She has to flash him a grin, impressed by the sincerity that warms his voice.

“That makes two of us.”

They catch up to the rest of the party just as Varric returns from a venture down one of two darkened hallways, shaking his head when Cassandra looks at him hopefully.

“Collapsed.” He reports, dusting off his pants, grimacing when the finely ground stone clinging to him only gets further engrained in his clothes.

“They came this way and had only one way out.” He gestures down the opposing hall where the torches aren’t lit—perhaps blown out by the chilly wind spiraling down from what may be the exit or a collapsed ceiling support.

One would lead to fresh air, the other to a dead end. And likely another ambush.

“We will have to keep on. If there’s a chance the way ahead is still open then we will have to take it.” Cassandra determines, spotting Cahiral and waving her forward.

“We aren’t going to be taken by surprise like last time. Solas, prepare a barrier, Cahiral, keep that warhorn down.” She hands out her orders, Cahiral giving a mock salute.

“Yes _seeker_ ” The title slipping like velvet off her tongue which only earns her a dismissive huff from Cassandra already heading her way down the hall.

“She’s getting used to you.” Varric observes, chuckling when Cahiral sighs wistfully.

“Shame. She blushes so well.” One moment she mopes like a meadow flower, the next she turns a flirtatious grin on Varric.

“Guess I’ll have to switch targets.”

“How now!” Varric gasps, hand on his chest, “Not in front of Bianca!”

“You named your crossbow Bianca?”

“Fitting, isn’t it?”

“It is-” a sharp snap beats down the hall, Cassandra glaring at the lot of them and gesturing silently with her hand in a ‘ _Hurry up_ ’ motion.

Cahiral frowns at Rorie’s smug smirk, elbowing him as she leads on, catching up with her kindred warrior.

The hall itself is colder than the rest of the mine. Condensation that had riddled their footsteps now bristles, half frozen into black ice making every step treacherous.

A frigid wind blows past them from ahead, buffeting around blind corners to reach them, grasping at their clothes and sinking icy fingers into exposed skin.

“Light.” Cassandra says low, spotting the first glow of what must be sunlight, white against the dark walls.

She walks cautiously, sword drawn and shield front, rounding the corner first and preparing for the worst.

Only for a sigh of such relief to slip past her lips, “Oh thank the Maker.” She breathes, smiling like she’d never seen daylight before.

“Oh good, I was worried we’d be stuck in here forever.” Varric snips, slipping past the Seeker despite his bulk.

He makes a stark silhouette against the tall archway leading to morning light, but his shoulders slouch and he breaths shakily by what he sees.

“Well… shit.”

The scouts.

Snow drifts down from the sky, heavier than yesterday’s gentle whisper. Down a shallow ramp of stairs lie dark bodies, scalded, clothing black with ash. Blood a brilliant red poisoning the white of snow seeps down the steps—Rorie’s glad breakfast was so light as his stomach twists in nausea.

Cahiral’s hand finds his in an instant, grasping tightly when the shock hits her hard. Her other hand covers her mouth, stifling the wounded sound that’s pulled out of her throat.

Varric equally looks shocked, the color draining from his face and life willowing out of his voice.

“Looks like we found our scouts.”

Cassandra looks pensively on the wounded, glancing over each body as she walks gingerly around them.

“No” she shakes her head, “This isn’t all of them.”

“The others-“ Cahiral begins, eyes suddenly brightening, “They could still be alive?”

Cassandra is about to reply when the familiar sound of a rift bursting open ricochets off the mountainside. Just down the twisting stair steps and a stretch of open land is the sputter of green webbing only seen fluttering around a rift, the rest hidden by a row of snow and trees.

There's the clash of metal, fighting, someone too far to understand shouting orders, Cassandra's cry of warning falling on deaf ears when Cahiral bolts down the steps.

Rorie swears colorfully under his breath, staff at the ready as he chases after her, the other members of their group close behind. Cahiral skids to a stop on top of a snow drift, Rorie grabbing her arm before she can leap into the fray, Solas' barrier cast over them in a bathing blue light.

The scene below is carnage. A rift grumbles in the center of a stone plaza where surely the mine's supplies were delivered on the road up from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The living half of the scouting party struggle against the demons that pour out of the fade, just shades for the moment. But the soldiers are flagging, hours of fighting making them slow and weak, Cahiral lurches down the snow drift when a shade slips past a scout's defenses, almost skewering her on bladed claws, only for Cahiral's blade to impale it through.

“Lady Cassandra!” One of the scouts gasps in surprise at the sight of them, any more she wants to say is cut off by the crackle of lightning plunging into a demon behind her. Rorie's staff grows hot beneath his gloves, breaking off the lightning when the shade finally crumbles in death.

“Sergeant! Pull your men back! We'll handle this.” Cassandra orders, almost drowned out by the screeching of a Terror demon clawing its way out of the rift, diving into the ground as if it were water.

“ _Fenhedis_ ” Rorie curses, gripping his staff until the wood starts to creak, eyes flickering across the battlefield, looking for where the demon would appear next.

The surviving scouts scatter away from the plaza, though wounded and weak, they brandish their blades in case the demon decides to finish them off.

Solas paces the field warily, eying the rift in case more demons decide to make an appearance before Cahiral or Rorie are able to seal it. Varric lingers protectively by the scouts, and Cassandra… shes standing right on top of a swirling green portal bursting with light.

“Move!” Rorie's across the plaza from her, but in one whisper and a clatter of magic he's shoving her off the portal in time for Terror to bolt through. The world goes black when he's thrown to the ground, hitting his head on the unyielding stone. Ringing shrieks in his ears, pin pricks of vision eking through—it sounds like someone shouting his name.

Then all at once everything comes back into blaring focus and there are eight eyes watching him. He's face to face with the demon, its head cocking to the side as if it were actually _curious_ about him.

He's aware of its hot breath against his cheek, grimacing at the acrid smell of sweat and fear—not his own, a projection from the demon, pushing fear on him until his heart starts to twist in his chest like its looking for a way out.

He pulls his magic forward, collecting it at his temples, in hopes perhaps of triggering a blast to get the demon stunned if not away from him. The flow of his magic seems to draw its attention and, twisting its head in agitation, hissing, displeased.

The incantation is barely on his tongue when Terror's hand shoots up to grab his throat, snarling its irritation with him for ruining its _game_.

Air squeezes out of his lungs and he scrambles for his staff. He has it for a moment, but Terror rips him away from it, familiar ground vanishing from beneath him in an instant and he chokes, gasping, scrabbling at the spindly fingers tightening around his neck.

He kicks at nothing but air, the ground is too far, Terror lifting him above its full height, too far, too high, voices drilling into his head screaming and _screaming_.

Or that might be Cahiral.

He sees, just barely, her circling the demon, avoiding the tail that took her out on the bridge. She's blurry, but he can see the white of her teeth in a vicious snarl and she lunges forward.

Terror shrieks and Rorie's jerked around, bladed claws digging sharper into his skin, needles searching for his spine. Cahiral's blade sliced barely a moment before a clawed foot kicks her in the chest and she's thrown back, hitting the granite balustrade with a crunch and she crumples to the ground.

Everything is starting to blacken around the edges, each pull of breath desperate and clawing for more.

The whispers flare along his arm and the mark sputters like hot oil. The rift it… it _calls_ to him and he's not sure why he does but everything is going numb and of any sure thing in his life, he knows he's not going to be conscious soon.

He reaches for it, the mark bursts, plunging into the rift, the whispers growing into the strength of a crowd. It all shatters and suddenly he's falling.

He hits the sharp edges of the plaza, his spine cracks and his scream is drowned in a dry gasp. The last light he sees is the growl of the breach, then nothing.

* * *

Something bitter pours into his throat and he wakes with a jolt, choking, sitting up to expel whatever is in his mouth only for a hand to clamp down over his lips, another pinching his nose so he can't breathe. His eyes water, and he's forced to swallow.

It’s horrid, oily on his tongue and he gags when both hands lift off and let him breathe the frigid air. The potion is the worst he's ever tasted and he looks up to glare at the person who gave it to him, only to see Cahiral glaring right back.

“ _That was reckless_ ” she hisses, the same words he'd snapped at her in the mines.

He doesn't respond immediately, pursing his lips and ignoring the urge to get rid of what’s in his stomach, instead, searching for Cassandra.

He spots her talking with the scouts, voice tender now that the battle is finished, and not a scratch on her.

He grimaces when Cahiral grabs him by the jaw and twists his head to look back at her, other hand pressing onto his eye socket to make his eyes widen.

“Stop that.” he tries to jerk away but her hand on his jaw is firm as she checks him for damage.

She only lets go when she's satisfied that his fall didn't rattle his skull. She stands up, offering her hand to hoist him to his feet.

That’s when he sees the damage done to her breastplate, deep gashes across the front, pierced through to the darkest metal. The piece would have better use melted down for scrap after this.

His back screams at him when he's on his feet, the breath knocked out of him and the world swoons under his boots.

When everything stops swimming and his stomach stops wanting to heave he notices the rift is gone, barely any sign of a struggle marring the battlefield. No corpses, no molten stone like the body of a rage demon would do, if anything, there's a thicker layer of dust on the plaza.

“What happened?”

“Besides your aerial stunt?”

He lets his scowl speak for him.

“When your mark reacted with the rift you… stunned the demon I guess. Just for a little bit, enough to have you almost break your back-”

“And you almost get disemboweled.” he retorts sharply.

She doesn't dignify him with a response.

“I closed the rift, and that's that. Everyone else is fine—well, the scouts aren't, but they're better now.”

That's when Cassandra notices that Rorie is awake again, speaking briefly with the scouts before making a bee line for them.

“Listen.” Cahiral begins hurriedly, “I think we can get Solas and Varric to help us get out of here in one piece. Varric said he knows someone, a pirate I think, who can get us across the waking sea free of charge.”

“We have to get out of the frostbacks first.” Rorie feels the little butterfly of hope flutter in his chest, quieting it before it rises too far too fast. But its there, ever present.

“I am glad you're awake.” Cassandra arrives, smiling weakly at the two of them. But she shies a little, shifting on her feet nervously and searching for her words.

“I… wanted to thank you. What you did was foolish-” Cahiral makes a noise of agreement with the Seeker, “-and reckless and ultimately unnecessary-” she stops, laughing under her breath at herself “I… just... thank you.” she hesitates, frowning at her next choice of words.

“But I am afraid we must get moving. Are you well enough to continue?”

Rorie nods, “Yes, I think so.” even with the vile potion making him queasy—it was knitting away at the throbbing pain in his back.

“I will send the scouts back to the camp then we will move. Leliana will surely be at the temple by now.” She tilts her head to them, ending the conversation politely and skirting back to the scouts to relay her order.

“If I recall.” Both elves look to Varric now sidling up to them, watching the Seeker go, Bianca nestled safely on his back and his arms crossed across his chest.

“Nightingale said that this route would be safest.” He looks at them, bruised, battered, Cahiral’s armor practically useless and Rorie cringing at every stretch of his spine.

“I’ll let her know we have a pair of martyrs on our hands.” Cahiral gives an admittedly bashful smile, rubbing the back of her neck. But she doesn’t deny his observation.

Neither does Rorie, hugging his arms against the gusting wind billowing off the mountain. Neither of them were used to this kind of fighting, working alongside soldiers and muddling through battle after battle. The clan had run into hostile humans before, sure, but those encounters had never escalated to warfare like this.

Any enemies they had were flesh and blood too, and quarreling with demons in the waking world is vastly different than those in Rorie’s dreams,

The only similarity would be his and Cahiral’s reckless determination.  
Demons or bandits, they’re getting a fight they didn’t bargain for.

“We’re almost there.” Cahiral says between the silence and the murmuring of the breach. They’re the closest they’ve ever been, coiling up to the tear in the sky right in front of them, guarded by jagged walls of ice and rock.

The scouts are trooping along back towards the mine now relatively safe, but their party’s goal leads further down the steps, to where the snow doesn’t touch, burned away by magic.

Cassandra stands on the precipice, baiting her breath, Solas beside her, surveying the field below of ruins and destruction. Original cobblestones from the temple melted together, bodies of the perished burnt to charred skeletons, frozen in agony.

Cahiral’s stomach dips and she swallows harshly, instinctively reaching for someone, finding Varric’s shoulder and squeezing for her own comfort.

He lets her, the color draining out of his face telling of the nausea he’s experiencing himself.

“Here we are.” Cassandra says morosely, her voice wavering in the face of all this horror. But she steels herself, and starts her way down the worn stone steps.

Fires still flicker in the corners of the ruins, burning on the fuel of coal in the heart of the mountain, now exposed like a sore wound.

It smells like burnt flesh and hair, the iron of blood and sweat of the fearful.

Great slabs of rock jut unnaturally out of the ground, veins of stone erupting out of the earth in response to the sheer force of the explosion that leveled this place.

It used to be beautiful. An ancient temple resting on a winding path, dusted in snow and peaceful beyond the squabbles of mages and templars. Old archways and graceful towering spires in reverence of Andraste. It used to mean something.

Now it means something else entirely.

“Maker’s breath.” Varric gasps, turning away from a body twisted in fright, hands gripping its skull in pain, fire running along its spine, burning away at the remains of the fallen.

Cassandra gives him a pitying look, swallowing down her own despair and moving on, slipping past the dead to what is now the entrance into the ruins of the temple; a sunken hallway crumbling each second. Fires burn along the edges, baking the air dry, hot tongues crawling up the walls only to be swept out by the cold blast of snow just outside.

They come out of the hallway and a different kind of gasp falls from Varric’s lips when he sees the gleaming red stones scattered across the ground, glinting like pebbles in a river bed.

“ _Seeker_ ” he says in shock, looking up quickly to search for a source, paling even more when he sees the great monoliths of the hungry red stone, murmuring veins like fire flickering in the cores of each monument.

“This is-“

“I _know_ ” Cassandra cringes from the stones, Varric practically baring his teeth at it.

“Its red lyrium, don't touch it.” he snarls, disgusted, “its evil.”

“Noted.” Rorie mutters, quashing down the initial fascination that grips him upon seeing the lyrium.

Before them is the heart of what used to be the temple. Massive stone walls encroach on the borders, shooting up to compete with the mountain peaks. No light filters in here, no sunlight anyhow, everything bathed in the eerie green of the breach and the bitter red of the corrupted lyrium.

Every surface is burned, scorched black or tainted with veins of red lyrium or the fierce fade green. Standing on the mezzanine that greets them and overlooks the basin below is Leliana, hands folded behind her back as she paces impatiently.

She looks up when they approach and a small gasp wrenches from her lips before she can school it and utter relief smooths the worried wrinkles in her brow.

“You made it, we've been waiting for an hour.” she reaches out to grip Cassandra's arm, keen eyes looking her over then flickering back to her party. She notes Varric first, then Solas, neither worse for ware. But then those eyes fall on the other two elves, eyes narrowing at the shredded breastplate and the bruises growing on Rorie's neck.

“We met resistance.” Cassandra explains, “The scouts were ambushed by demons, then waylaid by a rift. We were able to save some of them, but we lost time in the mines and dealing with the rift demons.”

“No matter, you made it.” Leliana smiles though it doesn't reach her eyes. She turns away from the troop, nodding to her own group of soldiers, though they don't number many, most of them archers.

“Position around the basin, stay out of the rift's range and prepare for my mark.” she says and like that they scatter, rushing to their positions.

“Am I… missing something?” Cahiral asks hesitantly, watching them go, “Are we fighting something?”

“The rift, there-” Solas rests a hand on the crumbling balustrade, gesturing to the rift feeding the breach now encased in ever shifting crystal, shattering and growing at the same time, “That is the heart of the breach. I think that once it is sealed it will also stop the breach. _But_ -”

“Of course there's a but.” Varric mumbles.

“-to do that we need to open it again and seal it properly.”

“That means demons.” Cassandra says.

“Oh! Wonderful.” Cahiral groans, dropping her head into her hand and taking a shuddering sigh.

Rorie watches her carefully, worry making him frown until she notices his attention and looks up. Her answering smile is weak and lessened by the weariness in her eyes.

“There is more-” Leliana is broken off by a rumbling growl from… everywhere, echoing around them, a shudder shooting up Rorie's spine when he realizes what it is.

“ _You_ ” a refined voice purrs, “ _will make a perfect sacrifice_.” it booms through the basin, pulling at every ear, humming delightedly.

It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“What is that?” Cassandra asks, looking around wildly for the source.

“An echo.” Solas supplies thoughtfully, “Its a memory of what happened here. It occurs in the face of great events, both positive and negative, and where the veil is thinnest. At a guess, we're hearing the person behind the breach, now seared into this place.”

“ _Keep her still_ ” the too polished voice commands to unseen followers, “ _Witness the rise of a new god_.”

“Sounds like a lunatic.” Varric says.

“The memory has been repeating since we arrived.” Leliana explains, waving with her hand for the group of them to follow her down to the heart of the temple.

“There's more.” She says, leading them down a twisting path which must've once been a set of stairs now melted down to polished obsidian slick underfoot.

“Whoever he is must have triggered what caused the breach—but I think it wasn't his intention.”

“What makes you say that?” Cahiral asks curiously, feeling the mark in her hand fight against her grip.

The closer they get to the heart the harsher it burns, one glance at Rorie confirms that his is fighting him too, his hand clenched tightly into a fist as he ignores the pain and hides it the best he can.

“Listen.” Leliana presses a finger to her lips, tilting her head to indicate patience.

Not a second later is there more rumbling, the ground beneath trembling as if in preparation before that voice from before snaps, seeping with anger.

“ _Stop him!_ ” Then a scream—a familiar one.

All eyes snap to Rorie, his eyes widening at the foreign sound of his own voice being played back at him.

Then-

“ _No! Rorie!”_ Cassandra grabs Cahiral as soon as her shout is heard, a snarl on the Seeker's lips as she shoves Cahiral into a wall.

“You were there!” She snarls, but the look that crosses her face isn't anger.

Its betrayal.

“What did you do!? What happened here!?”

Rorie's hand is on his staff before he even knows it, Solas shooting out to grab his arm, shaking his head “Don't.”

“I don't remember!” Cahiral snaps, boots slipping on the ground beneath her, Cassandra's arm pressing against her throat, “Cassandra! Honest! I don't _remember_.” She pleads, exuding all her sincerity and earnestness to the Seeker.

And she hesitates, lifting off Cahiral just the slightest.

And Cahiral, with that bit of give, smiles mischievously and Rorie can tell its coming before she even opens her mouth.

“Well then _Cass_ if I'd known you wanted me against a wall-”

“You stop that.” Cassandra says curtly, Leliana blinking at her in surprise at seeing her smile, a gentle blush on her cheeks as she lets Cahiral go.

“I do believe that you don't remember.” Cassandra concedes after a moment to gather herself, “But I can't be sure of your involvement, regardless.”

“That's… fair.” Cahiral sighs, ruffling her hair in thought.

The ground lurches beneath them, rumbling when the echo returns, the man's voice repeating what it'd said before.

“ _Witness the rise of a new god-_ ” except now another voice reaches out, snapping indignantly.

“ _You are not a god_.”

Leliana sighs, eyes snapping to Cassandra, “Justinia.”

“ _You blaspheme the Maker—someone! Help me!_ ” She cries out, fierce and angry.

Cassandra flinches, wounded, “She was the sacrifice.” She realizes, her voice breaking down the middle as the grief takes hold of her.

Cahiral softens, hesitating to comfort the woman. Ultimately, she pulls back.

Inside the echo the sound of a door slamming open and bouncing off a stone wall shatters the focus of the rift, now flaring, irritated with reliving what caused its creation.

“ _What are you-!”_ Rorie's voice snaps, at first in anger, then falling to surprise, a sharp gasp—the echo cuts off, twisting and blurring moments of time. There's no real way of knowing when parts of the echo are, the sense of time distorted by the fade's constantly shifting reality.

“Regardless of what happened here, we need to deal with the breach.” Solas insists, considering the breach.

“Once the rift opens it will attract any number of demons.” He looks back at the lot of them, “Prepare for the worst.”

Rorie sighs, preparing his staff, a barrier spell already half way down his arm, ready to be cast.

Leliana signals for her archers to get ready, the sound of a dozen arrows being knocked into place rattling through the temple ruins.

The rift coils and snaps as Rorie and Cahiral approach it, Cassandra and Varric staying behind while Solas does his best at instructing generally what they should do.

“I imagine you'll want to try opening the rift the same way that you typically close a rift, or trigger it to stun demons around it. That should force the rift open. Once we deal with whatever comes through, close the rift, hopefully it should be so simple.” He explains, all shoulds and maybes, but he's about the best of a rift expert they've got.

“Great. Okay, here goes.” Cahiral breaths sharply, nerves dancing on her lungs.

Rorie tuts at her teasingly, “ _Hamin_ ” though he's about as unsure as she is.

She laughs but its strained, hesitating to reach out to the rift, to call it forward and connect it and the mark on her hand. That last rift had felt like ice clawing up her skin from head to toe, squeezing the life out of her, feasting on her warmth. She'd almost passed out then… and this is the rift that's the key to them all.

“Solas” she starts, “What's the worst case scenario here?”

Solas only take a second to answer, not as reassuring as it could've been, “The rift explodes, you both perish and the breach goes on to swallow the world.”

“Thanks for being candid.” Cahiral grimaces, and… can't quite lift her hand the full way, to bridge the gap between the flaring mark and the rift.

Rorie surprises her by grasping her hand with his, their marks reacting with a flash to the contact, “ _Saron_ ” he says simply; together.

She smiles, best she can, and nods.

The searing heat that dives into her when the rift and marks connect is crippling. It plunges into her stomach, her eyes watering as the overwhelming heat bursts inside her lungs, burning the air as she breaths it.

Rorie's grip tightens, sweat breaking out on his skin as boiling hot needles pry between his teeth and surges down his throat, swallowing the scream that'd been clawing from him.

Before they know it they've collapsed, on their knees at the rift's mercy, feasting on any ounce of energy it can steal from them—but then it shatters, crystallized magic raining down in shards, a bolt of white lightning tearing into the ground, a hulking silhouette bathed in light materializing before them.

“ _Shit_.” Rorie gasps, heaving for breath, trying to scramble back to his feet. His legs don't react, limp beneath him, Cahiral beside him leaning heavily on her arms, hands planted on the ground and gasping for breath herself.

Pride chuckles down on them, purple scales jagged like thousands of thorns growing along every inch of exposed flesh. Twisting roots like horns pry out of its skull and grow out the bones of its arm, a tangle of sinew spiraling down to the serrated claws tipping each finger.

Too many teeth smile at them, too many eyes narrowing in delight, and its voice like garbled gravel rains down on them in a cacophony of sound.

“ _Oh what fun._ ” Pride lifts its clawed fist, lightning crackling between its knuckles, pooling into its palm and Cahiral feels her blood turn to ice.

Suddenly Rorie is pulling her to him, their joined hands tight against his chest and she can feel his heart hammer violently.

“Hang on!” His voice is drowned in the shriek of lightning coming down on them, then everything is a collision of color.

The world screams in her ears and, lightning, the crack of thunder, stone splintering in pieces and the howls of the dying. She skids across the ground and her armor shreds against the sharpened stone, tearing a hundred cuts into her skin, her fingers bleeding as she grapples for the ground to _stop_.

He'd had to let go of her halfway through the fade step, two bodies weren't meant for that spell. It was fucking _reckless_.

“Ro-” she wheezes, throat crying for drink, something, anything, “ _Rorie_.” she scrambles for a potion at her hip, her fingers tingling and numb making her fumble, breaking the first potion when it slips from her grasp, swearing at herself before she manages to bring another stamina potion to her lips.

The energy isn't much, its a flare in her chest, warm and bright and bringing focus and breath back to her. Sound returns beyond the din of ringing, the pride demon chuckling in sadistic delight as it tears into Leliana's troops.

Rorie was… her eyes search the battlefield, stumbling to her feet doubt how much her body protests it. She knows she can't handle much more abuse, not with dwindling potions and armor not worth its weight.

_There_. There he is, crumpled in a heap on the ground, blood glinting against the ground, spattered as his body was dragged by the force of the spell being pulled past its limit.

She stumbles, dropping to her knees by him, gingerly turning him to face her, ignoring the taste of iron in her mouth. He's bleeding from his nose, his armor torn, even the chainmail badly damaged after being flung against razor sharp obsidian.

“Rorie” her voice is weak, hoarse, scratching against her throat with every word. She presses her fingers to his neck, just to be sure, _Mythal please—_ then she feels it, the flutter of his pulse, racing, still pounding with the adrenaline of being nearly crushed by Pride.

The relieved sob that pulls violently out of her makes his eyes open, squinting but unable to focus on her. He tries to talk, choking, on the inhale, tucking his head to the side to cough up a glob of blood.

He tries again without any luck, hissing in frustration when nothing reacts, his arms won't move, his shoulders are screaming and his legs are still just as useless. Every inch of his body throbs and he feels stretched too far, bones creaking, the world swooning and blood settling in the back of his throat.

His head feels like its being split in two, closing his eyes against the light pouring out of the breach.

“ _Leth_ -” he chokes, coughing until he expels what feels like blades of glass in his lungs.

“Hey” Cahiral laughs weakly, brushing his hair away from his face, shifting to pull his head onto her lap, trying to clean away the blood on his lip even though he grimaces and flinches from her.

“ _Hey_. Stop moving.” he stops fidgeting, squinting up at her though nothing focuses right.

“ _That_ ” he wheezes, holding a racked cough in, “was reckless.”

She grins, “Yeah, it kinda was. First time for everything though right?”

She looks up when the ground shakes beneath them. Pride returning from a crouch where it'd thrown its clasped hands into the ground, a lightning whip licking at its palms. Cassandra is popping back up from a dodge, lunging forward to swing her blade, only for it to bounce off the demon's scales.

“The fight's going well.” Cahiral lies, watching the archer's arrows only sometimes find a mark, a lucky shot lodging into the tender flesh of its neck and blood black as ink runs down its skin.

He snorts, wincing at the pain, “ _Em tel'harel_ ” he murmurs, letting his eyes close again to comforting blackness.

She scoffs, amused, and looks down on him, “Don't-” she stops when a crack of electricity burst by her ear and she snaps up to see Pride's lost interest in the little soldiers fighting at its feet, drawn instead to the marks glowing around hers and Rorie's hands—the only real threat on the battle field.

“Hey Rorie.” He makes a humming noise, unable to give her much else, the drumming of thunderous footsteps heading their way barely a nuisance to his sluggish body.

Pride calls an orb of chaotic energy to its hand, black smoke coiling around white hot lightning. Rorie's spell was all for naught.

“Don't open your eyes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eolasan"  
> "I know"
> 
> “Ame shathe ma ane eth"  
> "I'm happy you're safe."
> 
> "Em tas"  
> "Me too"
> 
> "Saron"  
> "Together"
> 
> “Em tel'harel”  
> "Liar"


	6. Dahven

**VI.**

It is Leliana who saves them.

Pride's spell flies wide with a curdling shriek wrenched from its mouth—lightning blasting into the wall beside Cahiral and Rorie, chunks of shale and granite bursting on impact, shattering like glass.

Leliana's dagger digs deep in the creature's back, dark blood seeping from its wounds and painting her pale skin, her white teeth blatant against the stains on her face. She sinks her second dagger into the demons shoulder, hanging on dearly when it tries reaching for her, clawing at its own scales to try and get to her.

Its sides heave for breath, panting hoarsely, blood in its lungs wheezing with each inhale like the bellows of a forge. Its flanks are painted black and glistening in the fade light, starting to lose its footing like a wounded animal.

Leliana hoists herself to the shoulders of the demon, ripping out her daggers with little resistance, and unceremoniously plunges them into two of Pride's eyes.

All at once the hulking creature goes limp. There's no dying gasp, no protest, falling to its knees with enough force to make the ground shake. Its skin flickers into veins of green, already deteriorating into scraps of raw fade. Leliana tumbles when it hits the ground, rolling off her shoulders to land on her feet, a little dizzy and covered in what would at first glance look like ink.

But everyone knows better.

Its in her hair, turning her chainmail black and painting her with living shadows. Nightingale incarnate. Fierce blue eyes and hardened features not even softened by her lilting Orlesian accent.

“Get up.” She sheathes her daggers with a flourish, reaching for Cahiral, her hand print leaving black on freckled skin when Cahiral jerks back.

“No”

“You must.”

“I _can't_.” Cahiral insists though her words slur with exhaustion, “Just opening that rift took everything, I can't—not without Rorie's mark.” she doesn't actually know this, she thinks, half is guessing, half is making sure Rorie gets the care he needs to get back on his feet. That means twisting the Nightingale's arm in a way she can't weasel out of.

She hopes anyway, watching the thoughts form in Leliana's head. Solas is already walking past her to kneel beside Rorie when she finally nods and steps back, looking grim.

“We must hurry.” Solas informs, cracking smelling salts beneath Rorie's nose to make him snap back from the brink of consciousness, inhaling sharply and coughing violently, Solas helping him sit up to expel the blood in his throat.

Rorie makes a face when the apostate offers him a health potion, “Not again.” he groans, making a face the entire time the potion goes down, shuddering once he's finished it off.

“While we dally the rift remains open, more demons could come through at any moment.” Solas admonishes, pulling Rorie to his feet with apologies written all over his face.

Any regular mender would recommend that neither of them move until all their wounds have been seen to. No one has that kind of luxury right now.

He indicates Cahiral with a tilt of his head, Leliana stepping forward to help her up. Her ankles crack beneath her and her legs feel like lead, trembling like a fawn. The ground swoons like sloshing water and she stumbles, gripping tightly into Leliana's cloak to keep herself standing.

“Maker” Leliana gasps under her breath, slipping an arm around Cahiral's waist to keep her standing, “I hope this works.”

Cahiral laughs dryly, “Me too”

On the other side of the rift Rorie is using Solas to steady himself, the apostate watching him warily, offering his hands until Rorie's sure he won't collapse the moment Solas lets go.

His head is killing him, every breath feels like blades sinking into his lungs and pins dig painfully into his spine.

“Its time.” Solas says grimly, hesitating a moment, to say something, or offer condolences, but in the end he says nothing, turning away with a bowed head.

Rorie just focuses on his breathing, in, out, every one of them laborious as they clatter through him. He spits a glob of blood out, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and looks up at the rift. They can't let anything else get out. Its now or never.

He sees Cahiral on the other end, as if through a curtain of translucent magic, watching Leliana leave her. She looks up as though sensing him, giving him a small smile, lifting her marked hand, sputtering green and flaring angrily like a sore wound.

Now or never.

He grimaces with the effort, lifting his arm to the rift, willing the connection to be made.

His mark gasps and flutters and for one heart stopping moment he thinks its not going to work—he bites his lip hard when the rift snags his mark, plunging frozen teeth into his wrist and dragging him forward.

He hears Cahiral gasp, sees her gripping her own arm and nearly crumble to her knees. But the mark won't let her, her boots sliding on the ground, out of her control.

“Wait, wait, _wait_ ” Cahiral fights it, slipping on the ground and trying desperately to pull away. Something was wrong.

He's distracted by the hungering whispers, demons gnash on his bones and scream in anger that their doorway to their world is closing.

And they're the sacrifices to keep the door locked.

“ _Shit_ ” he swears when the pain surges up his arm and suddenly he's wrenched forward, his body crying in protest at the abuse. The mark devours the rift hungrily, tearing into him, feasting on his pain.

The world spins, he doesn't realize he's not even on the ground anymore until Cahiral's surprised shout makes his eyes fly open; he didn't realize he'd screwed them shut.

“ _Oh_ -” her mark snaps, jerked off the ground like she weighs nothing more than a rag doll, full armor doing nothing against the power careening them together.

“No _no_ , _**wait**_ _!_ ” She shrieks and the pain that explodes when two bodies collide sends everything into swallowing darkness.

* * *

Rorie wakes slowly.

Its warm. His body aches but not in pain, in the pleasant burn of a hard day's work. Blood doesn't settle on his tongue and the smell around him isn't the acrid scent of fear and battle. Its fire, gently crackling away at a pine log and the mint of herbs and cleaning soaps.

Someone is pacing ferociously across the room, an unfamiliar voice muttering in a flurry of worry and panic.

“Lady Cassandra will want to know. She'll need to know-” he opens his eyes to a cabin room. A fire sits in the brick stove, permeating the wood with warm oranges of flickering light. The cabin is stocked to the brim with pillows, blankets, and medicinal herbs and remedies.

An elf is pacing across the way, back and forth and wringing her hands in worry in front of an empty bed identical to his.

“She's run off and its all my fault.” The elf mutters, her voice nasally high pitched in her panic, “Maker I knew I should have checked in sooner! Lady Cassandra will not be-” she squeaks on a turn around, seeing Rorie awake and in an instant she's collapsed to her knees, lying prostrate before him.

He bolts up, the pleasant ache in his body suddenly bursting to one of sheer pain and he hisses, closing his eyes and pressing his hand into his eyes to stop the roaring head ache threatening to spill over.

Once its quieted he opens his eyes again to see the woman still on the ground, refusing to look at him.

“M-my apologies!” she says hurriedly, “I did not know you were awake—I beg your forgiveness, serah, I am but a humble servant, please forgive me, my lord.”

All the warning bells are ringing as he looks at her owlishly, the words she greets him by, my _lord_?

“Wait— _no—_ please-” he stammers halfway to standing but aborting when the elf flinches at his movement, making him settle back down on the bed, “Please stand up.” he pleads, awkward and nervous.

“I-I couldn't, sir.” She insists, but sits up, still refusing to look at him. As if it'd be sacrilege to do so.

“You are back in Haven, my lord, th-they say you and the uh...you and my lady saved us from the Breach.”

He doesn't remember.

All he remembers is the ground shrinking out from under him, Cahiral in her full armor flying at him, then screaming pain and nothing.

“So its gone.” He breathes, relief settling on his skin.

“N-not quite.” the elf explains nervously, wringing her hands, knuckles knobby and gaunt.

“The breach stopped growing, like the mark on your hand. It—it is still in the sky but-” she looks up suddenly in horror, “Lady Cassandra! She will want to know you've awakened.” She jumps to her feet, forgetting herself in her hurry, running for the door before he can even get out another question.

And then she's gone, door slamming loudly behind her. Rorie blinks after her, the shock of the encounter still grating on the edge of his teeth.

What was all that about?

His eyes snap over to the opposite side of the room when there's a knock. Cahiral is climbing through the window, standing on top of the opposite bed, dusting the snow off her shoulders as she steps down.

“I thought I'd have more time before she came back.” she admits shyly, smiling warmly at him.

He notes she's not in her armor, as, pointedly, neither is he. Dressed down to casual clothes that don't quite fit, too loose in the shoulders, too tight in the wrist. The laces crawling up his chest are tight, loosening around the throat and his whole ensemble is a gentle blue in color—better than the hideous beige Cahiral was in.

Cahiral's already made her own adjustments though, ripping the seam down the arm so she can roll the sleeves up, finding a scarf to wear in the cold and a clearly stolen duster stained with ash and dirt.

She notices his narrowed look and beams at him, “Nobody'll miss it. I needed to blend in, everyone seems to know who we are now.”

Right. That.

“What was all that about?” He asks, gesturing to where the elven girl fled, “And where'd you run off to?”

“I've been awake for hours” She complains, “I got bored.”

He waits, scowling, until she shrugs.

“I went scouting. Haven is crawling in refugees and soldiers—apparently however long we were out is enough for half of Ferelden to show up.” she sighs in frustration, running her hand through her hair.

“There's no way we could sneak out of here unnoticed, not with enough supplies to survive the frostbacks. And its too cold at night, without mounts we won't get far and they'll notice two horses missing in the thick of all this.” She sighs, falling onto her bed, huffing her frustration.

“We had a better chance in the mountains. Now… Cassandra's assigned us an 'honor guard'” she adds quotations sarcastically, “We're heroes apparently, heroes that need constant supervision.”

“So prisoners.” Rorie snorts, “Just in a gilded age.”

“The gilding is nice.” Cahiral props herself up on her elbows watching him carefully.

He narrows his eyes at her, considering her for a moment before he gives, “What?”

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Keeper.” She sits up, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees.

“Did you know that she wanted me to go to the Conclave?”

He straightens, eyes widening, “I—no… I didn't.”

She laughs weakly under her breath, shaking her head.

“After… after your argument with her—which, mind you, the entire clan heard, bunch of gossips.” she says good humoredly, “She asked to see me. She said—and this doesn't leave this room or she'll deny it to the beyond and back—that you were right. We needed to know the outcome of the conclave, what it meant for the mages and how it'd affect the clan.”

And he can't help it. The grin he finds stretching his lips is bright and she throws her pillow at him, “Stop that. You were _right_ but she'll tan me if she knows I said as much.”

“Cross my heart.” He promises, forcing the smug grin down a notch, unsuccessfully.

“She told me to pack my things and head out in the morning. Of course now I know you were already packing your halla and got nearly a day ahead of me.” the glint in her eyes flicks off like a switch, smile falling at the corners.

“You're still mad at me.” Rorie pulls himself to his feet, making motions with his hands and she scoots over, letting him sit beside her, mattress dipping beneath him.

“You _left_ , Rorie… no note, if I hadn't gone to check the halla and seen yours gone—” She bites her lip harshly, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes, “ _Mamae_ probably doesn't even know we're alive. We've been out of it for fucking _days_ and none of these shems would know where to send a missive congratulating her on her foolhardy _dahven._ The blast from the Conclave must've been seen from leagues away and as far as she knows we're dead, we're ash, or human prisoners, which we _were,_ and still _are_ , being taken to the executioner's block-”

Rorie grabs her hand, squeezing tightly as she trembles, breathing hard and dropping her head into her hand, dry gasps trying desperately to keep the tears down.

“Hey.” Rorie coos gently, rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand in comforting circles.

Its just them, for once in several days, no eyes watching them, suspicious or curious.

Just them.

“We'll write _Mamae_ ourselves, tell her… most of what's happened.”

Cahiral snorts, “Leave out all the near-death experiences?” she asks, wiping away the almost tears with the heel of her palm.

“Yes” He says, warmth in his gaze for the first time in a long while.

He's going to continue when there's a knock on the door, a low voice bellowing through the thick door.

“Heralds? Lady Cassandra wishes to see you soon.”

Cahiral's brows shoot into her hairline in surprise, mouthing ' _Heralds?'_ at Rorie who just shrugs, sure they'll figure out what the guard means soon enough.

“Come on.” He stands, still holding her hand, pulling her to her feet, “Maybe Cassandra's had a change of heart?”

Cahiral smiles weakly, sniffling and squeezing his hand, “Maybe.” she let's go, fixing the duster falling off her shoulders, clearly not made for an elf, even with her physique to help.

He rolls his eyes as he opens the door, “You should return that.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She shoots back, that mischievous spark in her eyes returning in a flash.

Everything drops though when the door swings open and they both freeze at the sight.

Color drains from his face in surprise, reviling at the sight of humans lined up, a makeshift corridor leading from the foot of the cabin to the set of stairs leading up to the upper terrace of Haven.

“ _Elgar'nan_ ” he swears quietly when all eyes shoot to them, Cahiral stiffening beside him and nervous chuckle spilling from her lips in an instant.

“We should've snuck out.” She puts on a blatantly false smile as they walk, waiting for the crowd to react violently now that Cassandra isn't there to protect them.

But they don't.

Every single human watches them with a kind of reverence, the children with their eyes wide with awe.

A few actually bow their heads in respect.

“ _Mythal_ we must be dead.” Cahiral waves coyly at a small child who ducks behind her Pop's leg before waving back shyly.

Rorie is busy listening to the errant whispers.

“ _Is that them?”_

“ _It is!”_

“ _The Heralds of Andraste-_ ” that last one has him shudder.

What happened while they were unconscious?

These people clearly weren't the same ones who greeted them back when they were still in chains. No shackles rest on their wrists… but now it feels like a collar cinching closed around his throat with each step they take.

He keeps his head down and hurries along until they're free of the corridor, only now noticing the two guards following behind them at a respectable distance.

Their 'honor guard' apparently.

“Cassandra better have some answers for all-” Cahiral wiggles her fingers, “ _that._ ”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she doesn't want to know.

Somewhere else, she already has a pretty good idea about it.

The walk to the chantry doors is peppered with similar occurrences. People, mostly humans, some dwarves, some elves, stop what they're doing to watch. Some scowl, which is welcoming, but most of those who stop whisper and praise them, one dwarf actually full on bows which almost has Rorie jump out of his skin.

They pass the elf who Rorie woke up to. She still refuses to look at them, head bowed in shame.

“I hate this.” Cahiral murmurs to him, slipping in to the chantry as soon as they're at the doors, thankful to be out of the light and away from so many prying eyes.

“That was weird.” she notes, satisfied with his sound of agreement, still somewhat stunned and mulling over what just happened.

Inside the chantry is dark, torches sputtering high up on the columns, massive iron chandeliers providing only a semblance of warm light. It feels more like a poorly lit library than a chantry, not much different now than when they were dragged out from beneath it where the cells call to them even now.

There are fewer people here, thank the creators, and very few give them any attention. And any gazes they catch are inquisitive, not reverent.

It is eerily quiet though, and they come to understand why when they near the door at the end of the nave.

Shouting breaks past the thick oak door, a male voice absolutely incensed as he argues.

“How can you say that Chancellor? After all they've done?”

“All they've done!” That's Roderick, his voice no angrier than usual, shouting his protests so the lay sisters at the front of the chantry can hear him.

“Do you not see the Breach still hanging in the sky?! That is what they've done!”

“They saved my soldiers! Saved all of Haven if not all of Ferelden!” the mystery man insists, growing agitated.

“You weren't there!” Roderick retorts.

“But I was” Cassandra says smoothly, insistently, no room for argument, “I heard the echo of the breach and I do not think them responsible for it.”

“Nor I.” Leliana explains.

Rorie and Cahiral exchange looks.

“Do you think I finally got to Cassandra?” She asks, flirty grin on her lips.

He snorts, shaking his head, “ _No_.” and pushes through the door.

Its a small stone room lined with pilasters and Andrastian statues. Sputtering torches, an a map table in the center surrounded on all sides by a small group of people.

All eyes snap to them, Leliana, Cassandra, and two others they don't know, a man in red, furred mantle on his shoulders and deadly glower pointed at Roderick, and a woman in gold and blue, stepped away from the altercation but looking like a viper waiting to strike.

That is, until she sees Rorie and Cahiral, and she brightens like the day, “Ah! You're awake!” She greets in a warm Antivan accent.

Cahiral believes she likes that sound.

A sharp elbow in her side makes her jump and glare at Rorie for breaking her from swooning.

That and Roderick spins to see them, face practically red with fury as he points at them.

“Guards! Put them in chains, I want them prepped for travel to the capital for trial.” The honor guard behind them hesitate, conflicted to follow the Chancellor's orders.

Cassandra saves them from that decision.

She gestures to them with a wave of her hand, “Disregard that and leave us.” And they scurry out of there quickly, door slamming shut behind them.

And suddenly it feels like the collar's cinched shut.

Roderick glares daggers at Cassandra, outnumbered by Rorie and Cahiral's supporters but still holding his ground.

“You _dare_ , Seeker?”

“I dare!” Cassandra snaps, whirling on him and shoving a gauntleted finger against his chest, “You would ignore the breach and the danger it still possesses! It is stable, for now, but we still do not understand who or what caused it.”

“You have your answers!” Roderick gestures at the only elves in the room, Rorie and Cahiral both scowling at him.

“I suppose our nearly dying several times doesn't matter to you?” Rorie snips, crossing his arms stubbornly.

The Chancellor frowns, considering for a moment, “Of course not. You two could be spies, this could be _exactly_ what you intended!” he scoffs, disgusted curl of his lip marring his features, “And yet you both live despite the breach's best efforts. How _convenient_.” He growls.

“Keep in mind, the breach is not our only threat.” The Antivan woman insists, stepping forward into the light, the gold of her noble cloth catching the light brilliantly.

Leliana nods her agreement with the woman, “Yes. Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Justinia did not expect.”

“And these two _elves_ don't match that description?!” Roderick gestures wildly.

No one in the room makes any notion of agreement with him.

“Perhaps they died in the blast.” Leliana continues, “Or have allies who yet live.”

Roderick spins on her, aghast at her suggestion, “Are you—are you _accusing_ me? I am a suspect?!”

“You! And many others.” Leliana snaps, stepping up to the man. He doesn't shrink from her.

“Me” he huffs derisively, “But not the prisoners.”

“The Divine called to them for help!” Cassandra interjects.

“Do you not think that 'echo' was fabricated? Its an awfully convenient story. You said so yourself that its impossible to tell what happened exactly.”

“I know what I heard, Chancellor. Neither of them were the perpetrators. It was-” she hesitates, grasping for words.

“They were at the wrong place at the right time, as it were.” The Fereldan man supplies, giving Rorie and Cahiral a respective tilt of his head.

Rorie finds his eyes drawn to the man, looking him up and down curiously, from broad shoulders to trim waist—he ignores Cahiral's knowing smirk he sees out the corner of his eye, snapping his attention back to the matter at hand.

Roderick gestures at the two of them, losing his patience, “So everything that's happened. Stopping the breach, those marks on their hands, all coincidence?”

“Mighty inconvenient coincidence.” Cahiral murmurs, earning a glower from Roderick that she meets with a challenging lift of her head, jaw straining under grit teeth. Her challenge shatters with Cassandra's next words.

“Providence! The Maker clearly sent them to us when we needed them most.”

“I'm sorry— _what_?” Cahiral sputters, Rorie looking at Cassandra in surprise.

“We're not—you do realize we're dalish? We're not your 'chosen'.” He insists, earning them both a displeased scowl from Cassandra.

“Whether you believe it or not does not matter-”

“Of course it doesn't.” Cahiral mutters, irritated.

“No matter, you two were exactly what we needed when we needed it most.” She replies, turning away when a thought crosses her, leaving the argument to Leliana.

“The Breach still remains in the sky. Your marks are our only hope yet of closing it permanently. We will discover a way how and neutralize it as a threat.”

“You realize this isn't for you to decide, Lady Nightingale.” Roderick argues, the Fereldan man looking like he's about to launch into a furious argument when Cassandra appears from the back of the room, carrying with her a book that cows everyone in the room.

She drops it loudly on the table for emphasis, pointing at the symbol on its cover, an emblazoned eye swathed in sun rays.

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor?”

He does, apparently, backing away from the table, wary, “Surely this doesn't call for _that_.” His voice still carries his agitation and anger, but now subdued, worrying the consequences.

“This is a writ from the Divine herself! Calling us to act. As of this moment I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She exudes authority in her words, the Seeker before them not the blushing woman Cahiral teased or the furious soldier slugging through the battlefields.

She advances on Roderick, the man stepping away from her, taking two steps back for every step she takes forward.

“We will close the Breach. We will find those responsible, and we will restore order to Thedas. With or without your approval!” She stops, having pushed Roderick on will alone back towards the door, all eyes now on him.

He scowls, looking between his opposed, shaking his head and turning on his heel with nothing but glower. No last words follow him out, the door clacking shut behind him with an echoing bang.

Cassandra relaxes, looking for a moment, saddened, before turning around, waving her hand dismissively at where the man once stood.

Leliana watches her worriedly, folding her arms at her back. Clearly there would be a conversation between the two behind closed doors. At another time.

Instead, the Nightingale turns to the rest of the room, “The Divine left us one last weapon to use against our enemies.” She explains, likely more for Rorie and Cahiral's benefit.

“She wanted us to rebuild the Inquisition of old. To find those responsible for this tragedy and find those willing to stand against the chaos.” She sighs, an almost defeated slump in her shoulders making the Antivan look at her in worry.

“But… we aren't ready. We don't have the numbers, no Leader, and now no Chantry support!”

“We don't have a choice, Leliana.” Cassandra implores, returning to the head of the table.

“Lady Cassandra is right.” The Fereldan says, stepping forward to join them at the table, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, “The Chantry will not act soon enough, politics will stall them while the breach yet lingers.”

Cahiral clears her throat before any more can be said, the humans looking at them as if surprised they're still there.

“Do we get a say in any of this?”

Cassandra starts, biting the inside of her cheek, “I… of course you do.” This surprises them both, automatically exchanging looks with each other.

That's new.

“You are… you helped us… more than we could have hoped.” She begins, choosing her words carefully, the Antivan watching on with approval.

“You are both free to go. _But_ you should know that we cannot protect you if you choose to leave.”

“Protect us? From what?” Rorie asks.

“The tale of the Breach has spread as far as Denerim and Val Royeaux, there are many who do not take kindly to two Dalish elves being named the Heralds of Andraste.” The Antivan explains, who freezes for a moment, eyes going wide, “But forgive me! I did not introduce myself!” She curtsies elegantly, “I am Josephine Montilyet, _andaran atish'an_.” she greets, instantly piquing Cahiral's curiosity.

She leans forward, hands planted on the table, flirty smile combining with the pleasant hum from her throat.

“You know elven, Lady Josephine?” Cassandra groans off to the side, beating Rorie to it.

Josephine smiles shyly, “I'm afraid you've heard all of it. My knowledge is limited, unfortunately.”

“I'd be _delighted_ to teach you more.” Cahiral purrs, Leliana scowling at her, but hides a smirk when her flirtations sail right over Josephine's head.

The noble brightens, “Oh! I would certain appreciate it!” She says enthusiastically, oblivious.

Cahiral deflates, smile falling, but she steps back with grace, “Maybe under better circumstances?” she asks.

Josephine starts, looking at the other three humans giving her an expectant look.

She blushes, embarrassed, “Of course. Back to business.”

Leliana shakes her head, smiling fondly, and gestures to the Fereldan man, “And this is Commander Cullen, leader of our military forces.”

He gives a respectable nod to Cahiral and Rorie, “At your service.”

“ _Indeed_ ” Cahiral murmurs in Rorie's ear and he resists the urge to smack her.

“I am afraid we have already received threats from… _enthusiastic_ individuals.” Josephine admits, crinkling her nose in disgust.

“A large majority of the chantry denies your involvement and I'm afraid despite out best efforts, your descriptions have been spread through most of Ferelden and some of Orlais.” she sighs, almost sad, giving the both of them pitying looks.

“I am not confident you'd be safe outside the Inquisition's protection. Worse… I would fear for the safety of your _clan_ should you be followed home.” She says no more.

Rorie stiffens at the implications, cold fury coiling around his heart, unable to hide the sneer on his lips.

Cahiral's darkened, brow furrowed and deep scowl pursing her lips.

“They'd _dare_ -” she hisses, swearing colorfully, “ _Su an'banal i'esh'ala._ ”

Silence falls over the group, just a moment for the realization of it all to settle in.

“So...” Rorie begins, “What are our choices?”

Cassandra and Leliana glance at each other before Cassandra steps forward, “As I said before… you are free to leave. We can prepare a couple horses with enough supplies to last you to the Waking Sea… or you can stay, and we'll offer you our protection for as long as you do.”

“Does that protection extend to our clan?” Rorie needles, adamant in a straight forward answer.

Cassandra hesitates, looking at her fellows.

Josephine steps forward, “Yes. Should the need arise we will provide the necessary protection for your clan as well.”

Cahiral turns away, pacing away from the table like an agitated animal, muttering something fierce under her breath.

Rorie watches her halt near the door, rubbing the back of her neck as she thinks.

He turns to the rest of them.

“We will need to think about it.”

“But we-” Cassandra starts, stopped with Leliana's hand on her arm.

Cassandra scowls at her, but gives a little, “We will need a response soon, you understand.”

“We will reconvene at a later time.” Josephine supplies, writing something on her board before following after Cullen who gives Rorie and Cahiral a slight nod in passing.

Leliana follows quickly as shadows do, only Cassandra hesitates, eager to receive an answer… but equally so understands their predicament.

She slips away with a muttered apology and then its just the two of them in the darkened room.

Rorie leans back on the table, waiting patiently as his own thoughts storm through his head.

They have choices, options, but not really.

“If we leave...” Cahiral's voice is quiet, equal parts anger and sullen realization.

She turns around to face him, “If we leave, we can't go home.”

He shakes his head, coming to the same conclusion.

They could leave, but going anywhere near the clan would be too much of a risk, they'd be on the run from fanatics while the human faith continues to slander their names.

“Or we can stay.” He supplies, watching her settle in beside him, leaning against the table.

“We could.” She sighs, “Help them find out what happened… maybe find out what happened to us?” She lifts her own marked hand, allowing the shard to flicker under her skin.

He has to admit, he is curious. What are the marks exactly? What's the extent of what they can do? Can they be removed?

“Even if we did leave, they need us to close the breach. They'd have to hunt us back down eventually.”

“Yep” she pops the 'p'.

If they go home they risk their clan. If they go on the run they may never see home again and certainly won't figure out what happened to them in their forgotten memories.

They have to stay. Out of obligation to their clan, to keep them safe by staying away. The notion hurts like a dagger in the stomach, twisting the more he thinks about it.

He had argued with Keeper, said things he… doesn't quite regret but could have been said softer. Didn't say goodbye to Mamae. He just ran fast as he could.

And Cahiral ran fast as she could after him.

“Doesn't feel like much of a choice.” He grimaces, allowing the decision to percolate through the room.

Its heavy and finite, their only real option where they can dictate a little control.

“So...” Cahiral hums, making him look over to see her eyes narrow suspiciously.

The smirk on her lips tells of ulterior motives.

“That Commander Cullen has a nice bum, doesn't he?”

Rorie laughs, shaking his head, ignoring how his cheeks flush with heat.

“I didn't think you'd notice past Lady Josephine's 'ruffles'.” He retorts and she shoves him playfully.

This silence is more comfortable, amiable as it lingers gingerly around them. The flutter of fire is crisp, the echo of stone and groaning of the building pleasant background noise to contemplation.

“Rorie”

“Hmm?”

“If anyone calls us 'Herald' again can you set them on fire?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “-dahven-”  
> “Children”
> 
> “Su an'banal i'esh'ala”  
> “To the void with them”
> 
> And that's the end! Let me know what you think, any input is appreciated :) also let me know if there are any mistakes, if I missed any elven translations, just give me a shout.


End file.
